Even Flow

by Darragh McManus

  Then a succession of images, still and moving, of famous gay or bisexual men and women from history: from Socrates, Alexander the Great, Leonardo da Vinci, and Pedro Almodóvar to Virginia Woolf, Martina Navratilova, Frida Kahlo, and Freddie Mercury…and, of course, Oscar Wilde, Walt Whitman, and John Waters. The latter was standing beside the gender-bending star Divine, dwarfed by the actor’s bulk, a happy smile beneath his trademark pencil moustache.

  The voiceover went on, “But—as is so often the case in this beautiful, shabby little world of ours—some people just can’t let things be, and accept others for what they are. Some people can’t mind their own fucking business, can they?”

  Now Waters was onscreen, shaking his head and tutting censoriously; now Wilde, sitting in the lotus position.

  He said, “Many theories have been propounded as to what causes homophobia in men; because, shamefully, it usually is men. Some blame religion, with its Biblical commands that ‘thou shalt not lie with another man, nor listen to bad disco music and have excellent fashion sense.’ Others blame patriarchal power structures, which rule the masses by creating division between man and fellow man, as well as man and woman.”

  More footage of famous gay men and women followed, Wilde’s voice rolling over the top: “Still others believe that popular culture is the root cause, with its relentless advocacy of the nuclear family, its archetypal boy-meets-girl motifs. A psychologist might argue that homophobia is the manifestation of the subject’s own latent homosexuality in a destructive manner. Whew—that’s pretty heavy. And a few—the more unimaginative ones—fall back on the familiar, and blame the parents.”

  It cut to grainy home video of a father urging his toddler to run with a football, then back to Wilde, still in the lotus position.

  “Personally, I think it’s because most men are weak and spineless and terrified of what their Neanderthal peers might think of them. But hey, what am I thinking…!” He slapped his forehead, a cartoonish gesture. “Why not ask someone who knows? Someone…at the coalface, as it were.”

  Wilde leaped up and went toward a door which opened onto a large, bare room, brighter than the murky hallways. The camera panned to the far corner, where Tommy was strung up like Jesus on a rudimentary cross, naked, tied to the wood by his wrists and ankles. His face had been painted garishly, like a bad imitation of a drag queen, his curly hair scraped into tiny pigtails. A feather boa was draped over his shoulders. He looked tired and scared but defiant, a sullen curl on his lower lip.

  Wilde said cheerily, “Folks, a big hand, please, for Tommy, our pupil for the day. Say hello to the folks at home, Tommy.”

  Tommy mumbled, “Yeah, yeah. Fuck you. How’s that?”

  “Fuck me? Hmm. I believe it’s the fact that you’ve got a serious problem with fucking another man that’s gotten you here in the first place, Tommy.”

  The camera zoomed in on Tommy’s face, blurred, then tweaked into proper focus. Wilde said, “As you can see, we’ve tried to broaden Tommy’s horizons by introducing him to the fun—the sheer liberation—of wearing make-up. Think David Bowie in his heyday. Think Alex in A Clockwork Orange. Think Marilyn Manson, think New Romantic, think the Scarlet Pimpernel. Think, Tommy.”

  The footage cut to a profile view of Tommy and Wilde facing each other. Wilde said, “Now. I’ll ask this once. It’s a very simple question. Why do you beat up gay men?”

  “I’m not saying shit to you, fag.”

  “Whitman. A little persuasion is needed here.”

  Whitman stepped forward and drove a large knife through Tommy’s feet, sticking them to the wood. The handle vibrated slightly as Tommy screamed in agony and disbelief.

  “Okay! Okay! Christ! Stop. Don’t do that… Stop. You’re fucking crazy. I’ll talk.”

  “Better. Now, once more: why do you beat up gay men?” Wilde asked. “And please, please have a good reason for this, Tommy.”

  The bound man shook his head. “I don’t… Shit. I don’t fucking know. It’s just a bit of fun, man. Just a bit of fun.”

  “A bit of fun. So what you did to that guy tonight—the man at the club—knocking his teeth out—that was ‘just a bit of fun.’ Correct?”

  “Got it in one. Just kicking around, man. You gotta take it out on someone, right? Might as well be a buncha disgusting faggots. I mean, come on. It’s not like this is some kinda radical fuckin’ view here, right? Most folks I know think the same way about those cocksuckers. Least I got the balls to do something about it…”

  Wilde raised a finger to hush him, and looked at the ground in thought. Tommy closed his eyes; his head lolled down around his chest.

  Wilde said, “Hmm. Yes. I think your case might prove to be a more involved one than we had hoped, Tommy. Drastic measures may be required to cure this patient.”

  Cut to Wilde addressing the camera, as a plainly terrified Tommy was lifted off the cross in the background, blood gurgling from the wound in his feet. Wilde smiled benevolently.

  “Once again, we must reluctantly take our leave, folks. I hope you’ve enjoyed watching, and I know we have your prayers and best intentions as we face into the onerous task of revealing the error of his ways to Tommy. Poor, mindless little Tommy. You’d almost have to love him if he wasn’t so utterly repellent.”

  More old footage: ceremonial religious processions from the Vatican, still photo selections from Robert Mapplethorpe’s oeuvre, David Bowie in his glam rock years, that alien beauty and angular style.

  Wilde said, in voiceover, “Anyway, as with our previous subjects, the way will be long and hard, but the rewards are… Well. The rewards are self-evident. And you can rely on the Enforced Karma Clinic to use every power in our means to smooth that path.”

  Then he was there in close-up, twirling a large syringe in one hand, the point of the needle against his gloved index finger.

  “You know, some people say that laughter is the best medicine. We find other methods work faster.” He winked. “Stay watching.”

  It faded to black, with the words, “Karma TV—it could be YOU” surfacing on the screen, throbbing brightly, then dissipating, dissolving, a ghostly echo ebbing away into nothingness.

  Chapter 5

  Stumped

  THE light reduced to a microscopic point, then died completely, as Danny switched off the television set in his office and flopped back into a swivel chair. He kneaded his eyes and stretched his back. He stared dully at the screen and shook his head. The comforting patterns to be found in mundane actions. He smiled wryly and silently accused himself of subterfuge: this wasn’t a pattern, it was a delaying tactic.

  He had nothing, really. No leads, no useable physical evidence, no known felons who fit the profile. The gang was good, he had to concede: Rosenberg’s sweep of the yuppie’s apartment had yielded little beyond common fibers that could have come off any mass-retailed clothes. No prints on the videotape or the “courier” envelope. The voices, maybe—tie them down with voiceprint recognition—but that was more advantageous in proving guilt, not detecting the perpetrator. Besides, he was pretty sure the gang had doctored their voices. And more than that: after two confirmed abductions, he had no clues as to where all of it was leading. Danny hadn’t come across something like this before: what were they, exactly? A bunch of pissed-off crazies on a mindless spree? No—there was purpose to what they were doing. Then what? A surrealist prank that had gone too far? Some sort of “New Men” in Rambo’s clothing? But that was a ridiculous notion.

  Or perhaps they were just personal enemies of that asshole Hudson? Ha. There was a definite possibility.

  Danny stood and moved to the window, opening it a little to let the breeze in. He was surprised, and frustrated, at himself, because he was normally very good at figuring these things out. He was clever, he knew, and thoughtful, and remorselessly logical; and even the weirdest situations didn’t normally throw him. He looked at the traffic sluggishly making its way along 35th Street, and thought about some of the odder case
s he’d handled in nine years as a detective. There was one, from five or six years back, that he remembered particularly vividly: the victim of attempted murder who’d presented himself with stab wounds all over his back, places nobody could reach themselves, and declared that he had bludgeoned his wife to death in self-defense. She’d flipped, attacked him with the kitchen knife—what else could he do?

  Danny didn’t recall why he hadn’t believed the guy’s story—some unknowable instinct, some sense beyond the senses—but he’d checked it out anyway, poked around, followed the evidence like a beagle on a trail. Eventually he discovered that the supposed victim had rigged up an elaborate system of pulleys to inflict the wounds himself, as part of a cuckold’s revenge. Danny had to admire his ingenuity, but didn’t let that stop him nailing the vicious fuck.

  A young, dull-looking officer burst in the door, his chubby face flush with excitement. Danny closed the window and said, “You don’t know how to knock, no?”

  “Sorry, sir. Dispatch said you’d wanna hear this right away. They’ve found a guy who might be, uh…” He cocked a finger at the video recorder. “…your guy.”

  Danny grabbed his jacket and checked that his pistol was secure in its shoulder holster. “Found where?”

  “Chelsea, sir. Down by the water. He was…” The officer squinted at a piece of paper; it made his features even more porcine. “Right, he was strapped to a pier.”

  “Uh-huh. Anything else?”

  The officer followed as Danny exited the room briskly. He gazed at the paper again and said, “Uh, lemme see. That area, sir, Chelsea, around Eighth Avenue, it’s, uh… Well, it’s, like, a major gay district.”

  Danny said, annoyed, “I know, Officer. Anything else?”

  “Yes, sir. Victim, a young black male, was found naked, tied by his ankles, and bound hand and foot with…”

  “…heavy duct tape. Is he alive or dead?”

  “Still breathing, sir, but only just. They’ve jammed him on over to Beth Israel. Suspected hypothermia from prolonged exposure. He musta been there for most of the night. Got a number of deep cuts, too: on the feet, the hands…”

  Danny stopped abruptly. “Right. He’s in the hospital. Fuck.”

  He punched the wall—not hard, but enough to startle the officer. The kid continued, “Uh, there was one other thing, sir. This guy, he had a whaddya call it, a placard hung around his neck. There was, uh, writing on it.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Um, I’m not too sure what this means, but… ‘How can they see the love in our eyes and still they don’t believe us?’ What is that? A line off a movie or something?”

  Danny smiled, the cerebral wheels turning automatically. “It’s… familiar to me. What is it…?” He touched his temple, thinking, then clicked his fingers and quietly hummed a tune for a few seconds. “Yes. It’s from a song. The Boy with the Thorn in His Side, by The Smiths. English band. Good song. I used to like them in college.”

  “Uh…yes, sir. Is, uh, is that everything you need to know?”

  “No. Call Beth Israel and ask them how soon this guy will be fit for questioning.” The officer stood there dumbly. Danny waved his fingers. “Go on. Chop chop.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Danny dialed a number into his cell phone as the kid trundled down the hallway.

  “Cathy Morrissey, please. …Hi, Cathy? Danny Everard. Cathy, what time did you receive that tape this morning? It was there when Bailey arrived for work. Which is…? And neither of you looked at it, you just sent it over here? …Okay. Listen, Cathy, I’m gonna need to talk with you again today. What time would be…?” He checked his watch. “It’s 10.30 now. Say 11? …11.15. Okay, see you then.”

  He hung up as the officer returned, florid, gasping for breath. Danny had to commend him on his enthusiasm.

  “Not a chance, sir. He’s recovering, but he’s too weak right now, and they can’t get a word of sense outta him. They said call later. They said maybe this evening.”

  Danny nodded. “Right. Thanks, Officer.”

  A light drizzle began to fall as he swung his car around a bend in Chinatown. Danny was taking a roundabout way to the Network 4 offices; he wanted time alone, time to think about all of this. He felt, in one sense, that he was only reacting as yet, not acting. The case had no shape to it, no discernible outlines. But then he banished the thought as pointless: wasn’t that how it was with most things? You just drift along, responding as best you can to events as they unfurl, hoping that nothing catastrophic awaits. And there were always things you could do, small things, but potentially significant. Danny reached for his phone and called the station.

  “This is Detective Sergeant Everard. There’s a videotape in the player in my office, and another sitting on top of the machine. I need them sent to forensics. I want to try and trace the voices on the tapes. The guys in balaclavas. I’m guessing they’re disguised, but… Ask ’em to do what they can, alright?”

  He disconnected just before the phone rang. Danny pressed the speaker button and Harte’s deep bass voice rang out.

  “Danny? James.”

  “Oh captain, my captain. What’s up, James?”

  “Just checking on progress. I called to your office but you’d already left. Would you believe I know the father of one of those boys you rescued yesterday? He’s in my golf club.”

  “Well, I didn’t quite rescue him. Which one?”

  “Paul Hudson. Son’s called Clint or Clifton or…”

  “Clifford. I don’t think he liked me very much.”

  “Well, if he’s anything like the old man, he’s an insufferable prick.”

  Danny laughed. “Yep, I’d say there’s a certain genetic resemblance.”

  “Anyway, this moron is down my neck over the kid, so I need something to tell him. What have you got so far?”

  Danny shrugged, and wondered why we often employ physical gestures that our conversational partner can’t see. “Not a whole bunch, James. They’re smart and resourceful and…and I hate to admit it, but they intrigue me.”

  “That’s it? All I can tell this man is that the criminals who assaulted his son are of some academic interest to the investigating officer? Aw, no, Danny, please. Give me something more.”

  Danny eased the car to a halt at a red light. He looked through the rain at the busyness, the chaotic cadences, at the heart of Chinatown. Then he said, “They’re dangerous. Tell your friend to count his blessings that his shitty son is still alive. And James—tell him I’m going to catch them.”

  He switched off the phone. “I hope.”

  Cathy smiled as Danny took a sip of the network’s notoriously foul coffee, and laughed as he visibly winced at the taste.

  She said, “Disgusting, isn’t it? See, we’re all used to it by now. You’re still a virgin.”

  Danny laughed himself and said, “I’ve had worse. So tell me, where’s the great Mr. Bailey today?”

  “He’s gone home. He said to apologize, but his famous ulcer is playing up, and anyway, he wouldn’t be much help. He knows even less than I do, which is pretty much nothing.”

  “Guess we’ll just have to muddle along as best we can.” He arranged his notebook on the table at a slight angle to his body, and readied his pen. “Alright, run through a few details with me: the courier arrived at…?”

  “Uh-uh. Wasn’t a courier. It was posted.”

  Danny looked up in surprise. “Eh?”

  “It was posted. Must have been either the final mail of last night or the first of this morning, because it was here when Jonathon arrived.”

  He said, almost to himself, “I suppose…last post at ten… Sorry, I’m just trying to work out a chronology here. No return address, I presume?”

  “Nope. We kept the envelope after our courier brought the tape over to you, if you want to check for yourself…”

  Cathy leaned back and grabbed a thick padded envelope from a countertop, placing it on the table.

  Danny
took it and said, “Yeah…it’s evidence, anyway. And that’s it? Still no follow-up? No phone call, e-mail, anything?”

  “I’m sorry. That’s it.”

  Danny chewed on his lower lip and stared into space, a not-unattractive frown on his face. Cathy smiled inwardly—this odd situation was not entirely without its benefits. Her enjoyment of the view was interrupted when Patrick stepped into the room, blustering, “Cathy, could you…? Oh. ’Scuse me. I didn’t know you had someone with you.”

  “No, no, it’s okay,” she said. “Come on in. You were there too.”

  Danny turned and stood, smoothing the creases in his jacket. Patrick stretched out his hand and said, “Aah—you must be Detective Everard. You’re investigating the mysterious 3W case.”

  “Danny Everard. Pleased to meet you.”

  Cathy made a sweeping gesture and said, “Danny, this is Patrick Broder. He works in my department. He watched the first video with us.”

  “Everard,” Patrick said. “That’s an unusual name. Scottish?”

  Danny smiled. “Actually, I think it’s Irish. I’m a bit sketchy on the old family tree.”

  “How about that, Cathy? Another Irish person for you to go—what was it?—‘drinking and carousing’ with.”

  “We’re taking over the world, kiddo,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  Patrick pulled up a stool. Danny resumed his seat, saying, “So, Patrick—you’ve seen the first video as well?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know that I can tell you anything more than Cathy, though. I mean, it was weird, you know?”

  Danny nodded.

  “So what happened with those two guys?” Patrick asked. “The ones on the tape. They were found, right?”

  “Yeah, we found ’em yesterday morning. They were fine. A bit shook-up. Actually, very shook-up. But they’ll live.”

  “Well, that’s good to know.”

  Danny smiled and stood, folding his notebook closed. “Yeah, I suppose it is. …Listen, I’m gonna come clean here—I’m a bit stumped on this one. If either of you can think of anything—regardless of how insignificant it might seem—let me know straight away. Okay? Anything at all.” He opened the notebook and scribbled on a page. “I’m gonna leave my direct line at the station and my cell number; you should be able to get me at one or the other.”