Closet

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “Shut up, Mark. And get out of here, both of you, before I call the police.”

  “My, a party,” sneered Cindy. “Wouldn't that make for some great TV?”

  “You bet it would,” snapped Todd, “because I'm sure the cops would be interested to find your fingerprints all over my place, Cindy. Who knows, maybe you even snuck into my place the other day. Maybe you took my Cubs hat and just sort of dropped it in the bushes so you could work that into your coverage. Now that I think about it, I bet the police would be really curious to find out just how far you'd go to further your career.”

  “Don't be ridiculous.”

  Mark added, “Cut it out, Todd.”

  “And, Mark, I bet they'd want to hear just why you had an AIDS test a few weeks ago.”

  “Shit, Todd, I told you that in confidence.”

  “Exactly what did you do in San Francisco that was causing you concern? Some dope and some swinging, wasn't it? Mixed crowd, right? Of course, unless you were anal receptive you probably don't have too much to worry about. But I'm sure the police would want to know all about your sexuality, not to mention the fact that you've had an extra set of all my keys. After all,” he said, lifting one in particular, “this one's the key to Michael's.” Todd glared at the two of them. “So I don't want to see anything on the news tonight about my apartment or about this little incident. Got it? Now get out of here.”

  27

  If by night it was heaven, all sequins and heels, makeup and lush song, then by day it was hell: starched shirts and neckties. Jeff wedged his finger into his tight collar, tugged at it, tried to get a little breathing room. Oh, God, how he hated this … this corporate bondage. Though he had no desire whatsoever to get his you-know-what chopped off, he much preferred his life as Tiffany Crystal, chanteuse extraordinaire, to Jeff Barnes, the bank teller. Oh, confusion. Oh, dilemma. That was the story of his life. Of course he was a guy and of course he was gay, but could he help it if he just loved the glamour of beautiful, sparkly clothes? Did it really matter if he didn't happen to look so absolutely fab in a gown and wig?

  An elderly woman appeared at his teller window, and Jeff looked up, smiled. “Sorry, ma'am, I just closed. See, my light's off.”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry.”

  “Barb right down there can help you.”

  “Oh, yes. I see.”

  The customer moved down two windows, while Jeff continued counting his drawer of funds and making sure everything added up just right. He prided himself on never being off, which was one reason he'd become the bank's star teller. He never broke any rules, but he couldn't help it just now, and he looked around, reached up, and strictly against bank policy undid his top button. Either the damn shirt had shrunk or he'd gained still more weight. So what if he was going to look a tad casual? If one of the managers questioned him about that upper button, Jeff would just say it was his lunch hour. Which it was. Never mind that today unlike any other, Jeff was taking part of his break right here at his window. While the head teller, Sue Bayer, was gone for her lunch, there was something Jeff had to find. No stroll for Jeff along downtown's Nicollet Mall today. No sitting outside and leisurely eating his sandwich. He just needed to find and take care of one little document tied to Michael's death.

  Carefully sorting the cash drawer, Jeff ascertained that he'd made no errors. Next he locked up the drawer, but he didn't sign off on his computer, for this was the perfect time for him to do his snooping. The lunch hour had brought in a good crowd of office workers, and Barb and the two other tellers now on duty at First Midwestern were swamped. Which meant they'd more than likely be too busy to notice what Jeff was doing over here. He glanced at the rear offices and saw that they were empty, just as he'd figured. The bulk of the staff was gone for this hour. There was one manager, Mr. Uptight What'shisname, at one of the front desks, and Shirley the receptionist was at her desk as well. Aside from the guard by the front door, that was it. This indeed was the time to do the research, which he most definitely knew had to be completed today.

  Not long before his death Michael had come to Jeff and asked a few questions that scared the hell out of Jeff. Ever the ethical accountant, Michael had stumbled upon something, a trail of dollars, and he'd followed it all the way to First Midwestern. Which was why poor Michael had been killed. Good Lord. Hacked up like a fish just because of what he'd discovered. It made Jeff sick, but looking back on it there was nothing he could have done to prevent it.

  Jeff studied his computer screen and scrolled through some commands, knowing full well that he'd be fired on the spot for doing this. Or dropped in jail, which would be a real drag because he knew a queen like him would have a rough time in prison. But it was all coming to a head and he had to act quickly. His hands flying across the keyboard, he punched in the name and the account appeared immediately on the monitor. Okay, he thought as he read, everything still looked legit. Good. No one had monkeyed with anything. As far as he could tell, no one had suspected, no one had even looked at the account since Michael's death. He scrolled down, bringing up the entire transaction history, and there it was. Slightly over seven hundred thousand dollars, and every penny of it still there. Bravo. Someone was pretty fucking rich, and he couldn't hide a smug smile, because he knew who that was. Oh, he thought, he was just so brilliant. He'd have to swing by Saks and buy a new gown. Sure, he'd celebrate in real style.

  He glanced around. No big deal. With a couple of quick keystrokes he entered the command. A few seconds later he could hear the printer in the back begin to hum away. This was the only part he was nervous about, and he scurried away from his computer. There'd be questions if a manager saw him printing out someone's account record, particularly this one. And there'd be trouble if Jeff was spotted stuffing that printout into his pocket.

  All the information filled up three pages. Jeff stood by the laser printer, collecting each page as it came spitting out. Then, as if it were perfectly normal business, he took the pages back to his teller window. There he feigned interest in the papers—oh, just checking on a possible discrepancy, he'd say, if anyone asked—circling some numbers, running a finger down one column. And when no one was watching, he folded the sheets in half.

  Okay. Out of here, he thought. He signed off on the computer, nabbed the documents, and waltzed off.

  “See you, Barb,” he called to one of the tellers. “I'll be back in thirty.”

  She glanced over as she counted out something, saying, “Bye now.”

  Less than five minutes later, his brown-paper lunch sack in hand, Jeff was making his way quickly through the Skyway. There was a bit of a chill in the air, nothing like what was coming in a month or two, for sure, but the system of interior second-floor corridors that linked most of the buildings was pretty full. Jeff strolled along, passing from his bank building across the glassed-in pedestrian bridge and toward City Center. He paused once, zeroing in on a flashy display of women's shoes. God, he thought, the shiny gold ones with the clear plastic heels were magnificent. They'd go perfectly with one of Tiffany's dresses. But were those clear, spiky heels strong enough to hold someone of Tiffany's voluptuous proportions?

  Later, doll, he told himself. The big party would come later, but for now there were more important things.

  The Skyway splintered off, and instead of heading across Sixth Street toward City Center he followed a narrow corridor into a more anonymous building. Passing through a double door, he took a left at a copy shop and then, just before the sub shop, turned down a little corridor, a deadend passage that led to some storerooms or something. He liked this pay phone down here. Except for Jeff, no one ever used it. And no one was ever lingering about and listening in, which was quite different than at the bank, where you couldn't say a peep back in the employee lounge without being overheard. That was why Jeff always used this phone for his private transactions.

  He dropped a quarter into the phone, looked up and down the little hall, and dialed the number.

  Just aft
er the third ring a deep voice said, “Hello?”

  “Hi, gorgeous, it's moi,” said Jeff, feigning Tiffany. “Is that really you? I'm speechless. Truly I am. Tell me it isn't so. Tell me I haven't reached your answering machine.”

  “Did you check?”

  “Oh, I did indeed.”

  “And it's all there?”

  “All of it. All that luscious money,” replied Jeff with a soft, heated laugh. “More than I could ever spend in a month.”

  “Great, then I'll pick you up tonight.”

  “The show's over at midnight.”

  “I'll be waiting just off Fourth.”

  “Kiss, kiss,” said Jeff into the phone. “See you then, Sweet Prince.”

  28

  Todd wasted no time in packing a bag. He threw some jeans, a couple of shirts, a sweater, underwear, and socks into a small duffel bag, grabbed a sports coat, and then called Janice at her office. When her secretary informed him she was in a meeting, he told her to interrupt whatever Janice was doing, it was an emergency, he had to talk to her. After a couple of desperate minutes Janice finally clicked onto the line.

  “Todd, are you all right?” she demanded. “What's wrong? What happened?”

  “I'm okay, I guess,” he told her over his cordless phone as he paced back and forth in his living room.

  “Where are you?”

  “At home, but there's no way I can stay here.”

  “Calm down, Todd. Everything's okay for now. I just talked to the police. I don't think they're taking any immediate action.”

  “Well, I just had a run-in with Channel Seven down in the garage.” He couldn't stand this. “I've got to leave. I've got to get out of here. Reporters are going to be swarming around this place like flies on shit.”

  “You can't leave town. You know that, don't you?”

  Yeah, but, he pleaded, couldn't he stay at her place? He just had to get out of here. He couldn't stay at his condo. He was afraid. Did she understand? Afraid. There was a moment of hesitation, she mumbled something about legal propriety, and then she replied, sure, what the hell.

  “But I won't be home until almost six.”

  “Fine, there's something I've got to do.”

  “Like what?” And then she quickly added, “No, I don't want to know. Just don't do anything stupid, and stay out of trouble, you hear me? And call me in a couple of hours.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  Todd hung up, slipped on a loose cotton jacket, grabbed his bag and briefcase, and started for the door. He put on a pair of sunglasses and rode the elevator down to the garage. When the lift stopped on the seventh floor and a young couple boarded, Todd stood in a corner, his head slumped. Much to his relief, they were much too involved with each other to notice him.

  Car key in hand, Todd bolted out of the elevator and into the garage, his eyes shifting from side to side. He made straight for his Cherokee, nervously opened the door, threw in his things. Slamming down on the automatic locks, he brought the vehicle to a roar of a start and simultaneously slammed the gears into reverse. His temptation was to come screeching and barreling out of the garage, but instead he kept his speed down. When he saw the Channel 7 van now parked out on Dean Parkway, he bit his bottom lip. Nice and steady, he told himself as he passed the vehicle, which appeared to be empty. Were Cindy and Mark still lurking down in the lobby? Within seconds he was turning down Lake Street and heading toward Highway 100, and Todd realized he'd gotten away undetected.

  As he eased onto the highway he took a deep breath, tried to get his thoughts in order. He placed a quick call on his car phone, making sure it was all right to come by, and about twenty minutes later he was once again driving along the edges of Lake Minnetonka. When he turned down the twisty, leaf-sprinkled drive leading to Michael's sister's house, the golden retriever greeted him as always, barking as Todd pulled the Cherokee to a stop.

  “Hey, there, Pronto,” said Todd as he got out and patted the dog.

  When he looked up, the dark gray door of the Cape Cod house was opening, and she stood there, hair dark and curly, those brown eyes big and inquisitive. It took him by surprise. He had never really paid much attention, but her resemblance to Michael was just so strong, now more than ever.

  “Hi, Maggie,” he called as he made his way up the low stone steps.

  She embraced him long and hard, wrapping her arms around him, saying only, “Todd.”

  Hugging her back, he said, “I think you could say I'm not having a good week.”

  “Come on in. You want some coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you have lunch? You want a sandwich?”

  “Sure.” Todd grinned and said, “You're reminding me why Michael liked to come out here so much. It's like coming home to Mom.”

  “Oh, stop.”

  “It just feels safe out here.”

  “Thanks. You make me sound like a dour old matron when I'm just a depressed suburban housewife.” As she led the way in she said, “Rick should be back in a few minutes. He'll be glad to see you.”

  “Back? What's that mean?”

  She shrugged and ventured a hesitant-yet-hopeful phrase, saying, “We're kind of giving it another whirl.”

  “And?”

  “It's only been a few days, but so far so good. He's been staying here most nights since … since Michael died. He's pretty busy during the day, but he's been helping with the kids as much as possible. I hate to say it, but a crisis like this brings out the best in Rick, and he's been a big comfort to me. Who knows? He took this afternoon off—he just went to the store to get some hamburger—and we're going to have a little family barbecue tonight. Doesn't that sound encouraging?”

  “I hope it works out.”

  “Thanks. So do I.” She hesitated, then added softly, “It's just been so hard losing Michael.”

  “I know.”

  Todd followed her across the oak flooring of the front hall, and then he stood above the sunken living room. The last time he was here it had been filled with Maggie's friends who'd gathered to offer their sympathies and condolences. Now, with the room cleared, it was filled with memories of Michael. Todd saw him everywhere, in every corner, on every piece of furniture. Michael building a fire in the large fireplace. Michael setting up his nephew's train set after Christmas. Michael napping on the couch after Thanksgiving dinner while a football game blared.

  “Take off your jacket and have a seat, I'll be right there,” called Maggie as she slipped into the kitchen.

  He descended into the living room, looked around, saw the ghost of Michael traipsing about quite normally. Todd went over to the sliding glass doors and stared out over the lawn and Lake Minnetonka. Michael … Michael … Michael … There he was, teaching his nephews how to water ski. With no children of his own, a fact he'd always regretted, Michael had been the consummate uncle.

  “Todd?”

  He turned around. Maggie was just setting a tray on the coffee table. How long had he been looking out the window, lost in memory?

  “Sit,” she said as she took a place on the couch. “You look a little pale.”

  “Things are kind of going from bad to worse.” As he sat on the couch he let out a deep, exasperated breath of air. “Did you hear the news? This other murder?”

  Taking her mug of coffee from the table, she nodded and then muttered, “Unbelievable.”

  “I'll say. The police—”

  “Let's not,” she said, wincing. “Not now anyway. I just can't.” She shook her head. “Do you mind?”

  “No,” he said, for he'd come out here for altogether different reasons.

  Getting up rather quickly and going to a bookcase, Maggie switched eagerly to a different subject, saying, “Rick and I got out some pictures last night. I don't think you've seen them. They were Mother's photo albums from when we were kids. There are some adorable ones of Michael. I want you to have some of them.”

  She carried over three huge albums, all bound in red
leather, and plunked them on the couch between Todd and her. For the next twenty minutes they thumbed through the pages, disappearing into the past, reminiscing about Michael. Todd drank his coffee, ate the sandwich, and listened as Maggie went on and on about her big brother.

  “He was such a little pistol,” she said, tears twinkling in her eyes. “You know, a big brother can be a real pain in the ass. Not Michael. He was the best. The greatest. He always let me hang out with him and his friends.”

  “What did he do in exchange,” joked Todd, “make you play waitress and serve them Kool-Aid?”

  “Well, actually, that's about right. That's probably when my waitressing career bagan.”

  There were black-and-white pictures of them at Christmas, sitting on Santa's knee down at Dayton's department store. And there was Michael in a little bow tie, all dressed up for Easter. There they were, brother and sister, visiting the grandparents. And the childhood dog, Rusty, the golden retriever that had inspired the gift of Pronto to Michael's nephews. Michael at day camp. Michael at summer camp. The two of them at the Aquatennial Parade on a hot, hot July day.

  “Look at him in his shorts and his little cowboy boots. It was broiling and he just had to wear those boots. He got horrible blisters too. I'll never forget it. He could barely walk for days after that, but he never cried,” said Maggie. “Wasn't he cute?”

  “Yeah.”

  As she delved further and further into her memory, bathing in the images of Michael as if it were some sort of sacred ritual, Todd began to lose his nerve. He just wasn't sure he could ask. He'd come out here determined to see if Maggie knew, for Michael had been closest to her of all people. If Michael had had anything to confess, more than likely it would have been to her. Sensing how fragile Maggie still was, however, Todd just wasn't sure he could broach the subject.

  Maggie turned yet another page, and a group of young boys stared up at Todd. Probably about age ten in the photo, all three boys wore raggedy shorts and stood knee-deep in some water.