A Nick Bakes poster on the wall next to the booth was of a young blond lying in bed with his pajama tops open, and the bottoms unbuttoned enough to reveal white briefs. I always thought it looked like Scott when we first met. I think he’s even more beautiful now.
Scott broke the silence. “We’ve got no choice but to trust each other.” He explained that the police didn’t believe us about Glen’s death.
Brad finished his waffle and took several enormous gulps of coffee. Immediately the waiter appeared and refilled the mug. He rested a hand on Brad’s shoulder and leaned a hip more than companionably close. He finished his onerous duty and sauntered off.
“I don’t know if I can take this place,” Brad said.
“We could all be dead if we don’t do something,” I said. “We’ve got to know what the hell was going on. You’ve got that information. Like Scott said, who are you going to turn to?”
“I don’t know,” Brad said. “We were down there together. We didn’t plan for it to happen.”
“What?” I demanded.
Brad mumbled, “Drugs.”
“I knew it,” I said. It was such a stupid cliche thing for Glen Proctor to involve himself in: illegal drug trafficking. He double-crossed somebody and got himself killed.
“What kind of drugs?” I asked almost bored.
“Not kinds of drugs,” Brad said. “Drug people. We had a line on where Frederico Torres was hiding.”
Everybody knew from the headlines that Frederico Torres was the most powerful drug kingpin in Mexico. Huge numbers of police officials in twelve countries and millions of dollars had been spent hunting for him. He had eluded numerous police dragnets and was wanted by the authorities in half the countries in the world not only for illegal substances but for his involvement in assassination and gunrunning as well.
“He’s got a price of seven million dollars on his head,” Brad said. “Glen found out where he was and was determined to cash in. He’d lost all the money he made in baseball. This was his way of showing his dad he could make it on his own and that he’d kicked his drug habit for good and was making up for it. He knew where Frederico was. I was going to help Glen turn him in. We were going to split the money, but something went wrong near Huautla, in Mexico.”
“Why didn’t you just call the police?” I asked.
“We were going to, but we didn’t know which cops to trust. Glen suggested we give the information to cops in this country. He decided we should split up. He came a day ahead. I think he had a meeting with somebody at the airport in Acapulco, but he wouldn’t tell me. He gave me a number to call when I got here, which I guess was you guys. I flew out of Mexico City to Ciudad Victoria.”
Brad wiped his palm across his brow. I didn’t think his nervousness was from being turned on by the dancing boy, the hired help, or the decor.
“On the way to Mexico City, I drove by the place where twenty-four Mexicans were killed in an ambush. There’s a lot of drug traffic through that region. I think I was lucky to get out of there alive. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten involved with Glen. He always had the goofiest schemes.”
“Are you sure he wasn’t trying to smuggle drugs?” I asked.
Brad looked down at the table, pawed at his hair again, and looked sideways at us. “He wasn’t. I went through his luggage and my own, in case he tried to stuff some in that I didn’t know about.”
“You knew him pretty well,” Scott said.
“I know I’m not bright, but I’ve been around enough to recognize Glen’s type.”
“How’d you get involved with him?” I asked.
“I was in Ciudad Victoria doing some preparation for the winter baseball leagues. I’m a sort of coach and player. It’s the only place I can still play. Nobody else wants me. My knee’s a little gimpy from an operation. Glen came through a few weeks ago. He suggested a vacation together. It was nice seeing a guy I could talk to and understand. I’m not prejudiced, you understand, but at least he spoke English. Besides, Glen always was a good guy to party with.”
“How’d he stumble onto this drug lord’s whereabouts?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” Brad said. “Glen didn’t explain much to me. He just wanted my help.”
“Did he know before he ran into you?” I asked.
Brad thought a minute. “I don’t think so. He didn’t start talking about it until the day we left Cuernavaca for Acapulco. That was five days ago.”
“Why did he need your help?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. I think I was supposed to be like sort of a bodyguard.
“You have no idea what happened?” I asked.
“Only a little. I know he was sending the information about the drug guy’s whereabouts here and not bringing it with him. I got nervous and figured I’d better get out of the country for a while. At the Mexico City airport, I thought I was being followed. I had a scheduled stop in Ciudad Victoria. While there, I checked in at my place to pick up a few things. My neighbor told me that some mean-looking dudes were looking for me. At the airport gate I saw the guy who I thought was following me in Mexico City. I don’t think he saw me. I turned around and left. A friend agreed to drive me as far as Brownsville, Texas. I just wanted to get back to the United States as quick as I could and get hold of Glen. Brownsville is where I saw the bus I would have been on boarded by guys with guns.”
The waiter returned and sidled up to our booth. His thong came up to about the edge of our table. In an incredibly deep bass voice, he asked, “Is everything satisfactory?”
Brad said, “Get the hell out of here, faggot!”
The young man drew himself up to his full-fairied fury. I forestalled a confrontation. Much as the young man didn’t deserve to be treated harshly, I wasn’t in the mood for confrontation. I echoed Brad’s sentiments, but with a more friendly dollar bill tucked into his G-string and a pat on the ass.
To Brad I said, “Keep your homophobia to yourself. If you’re going to get out of this, it’s going to be because of us.”
“I should call the cops,” Brad said. “I don’t even know what homophobia is.”
“Call them,” I said.
Brad hesitated. He went through his head-scratching routine again. “I could tell them I think Frederico Torres is after me and that his men killed Glen.”
“What proof are you going to give them?” I asked.
“That they killed Glen.”
“We have no body and no proof for that,” I said.
“But they attacked you.”
“And you don’t like us, so you’re going to call the police and use an attack on us as a way to get protection for yourself. Does that really make sense to you? Do you think they’ll buy your story?”
“They have to,” Brad said. “Don’t they?”
“Your trust in the local constabulary is quaint but misguided,” I said.
“They can’t just come into this country and kill people,” Brad said. “We’ve got laws against that.”
I was polite enough not to laugh at him. Now that we had information from him about who was probably chasing Glen, I wasn’t sure how much good he was to us. I didn’t want this homophobic creep hanging around, who we might have to protect or save. I also wasn’t sure what we could do with the information.
I wanted to shower and shave, meet with Mrs. Proctor, talk with my lawyer, and be safe in my own home. The immediate questions were how to be safe and how to handle Brad. I could easily see him getting himself killed by doing something stupid.
“Homophobic means I don’t like gay people,” Brad said apropos of nothing.
Scott nodded.
Brad shook his head. “I just don’t like being in this place,” Brad said. “I’m liberal. In bars in the minor leagues, I even met a few guys who I let give me blowjobs. Doesn’t mean I’m gay or that I hate you guys. Just this place gives me the creeps.”
I glanced around. To someone unaccustomed to the more flamboyant side of gay life, it could be a
little difficult to take. The atmosphere was like the most outrageous parts of the Pride Parade, the ones they usually show on television, or on hate videos put out by the religious right.
Scott said, “We should call Todd again.”
So I did. His answering service told me to hold on. He must have left a message to page him immediately if we called.
After I explained everything to him, Todd said, “Does Brad know where Frederico is?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “We never asked him.”
“You don’t want to know,” Todd said. “Don’t let him tell you the place. He’s got to get himself to the authorities immediately. Go from where you are to the nearest police station and stay there no matter what. That’s the Twenty-third District at Halsted and Addison. I will bring reinforcements.”
“What did you find out about old man Proctor’s business?” I asked.
“No time now. Immediately get him to the police station.”
I walked back to the table. Brad wasn’t there.
“In the john,” Scott answered my unspoken question.
“He didn’t want an escort?” I asked.
“He said he could handle it.”
I motioned for our waiter, who came over, leaned up next to me, and whispered in my ear, “I’d love to take you home if neither of these guys is your lover.”
“Thanks, I’m spoken for,” I said.
Scott hadn’t been recognized by anyone in the bar, or if he had, they’d kept a discreet distance. Going out with him can be a hellish experience. Get one fan who recognizes him, and you could have a maelstrom of screaming lunatics around you in seconds. Other times he manages to slip by completely unrecognized. Last year he dragged me to the Chicago Auto Show, the biggest one in the country. We’d walked around for two hours, and he was completely unrecognized.
I paid the check and sat on the edge of the booth to wait for Brad. The dancing boy was immediately upon me. I had sat spread-legged with both knees jutting into the aisle. He chose to deposit himself on my right knee and proceeded to make his pouch jump and jiggle on my thigh.
For my dollar, I got a hug and a whispered “Thank you.” He smiled and moved on to his next victim.
“It’s so nice they’re friendly,” Scott said.
“Hell of a way to make a living,” I said. “I wonder if they have real jobs.”
“Ask them sometime,” Scott said.
“I’m not sure I care that much.”
“Brad’s taking a long time,” Scott said.
I leaned out of the booth and looked toward the back and the washrooms. “I hope he didn’t get lost or molested,” I said.
“I’m going to check,” Scott said.
I scanned the crowd. A tall, beefy guy and a short, thin guy with a wispy mustache lounged near the door. Undercover cops or … I began to feel uneasy.
A moment later, Scott hurried up to our table. “He’s gone,” Scott announced.
“What do you mean, gone? He can’t be gone!”
“I mean gone, as in ‘no longer at this place in this universe,’” Scott said.
I needed sarcasm at this moment. I nodded discreetly in the direction of the suspicious guys near the front. “Did Brad see them?”
“I don’t know when they came in.”
“Come on,” I said. We both rushed to the back together. We checked both johns. Empty. A third door led off from the hallway with the washrooms. I pushed it open. The room was set up like a hundred dressing rooms in tawdry theaters. A mirror with a row of lights around the perimeter. Cramped quarters with clothes strewn everywhere. Racks of clothes against the walls. A dancing boy sat in a tatty flannel bathrobe. A cigarette dangled from his lips while he perused a textbook whose title read Sociology of Groups in the Wild.
He glanced up at us. “You’re not supposed to be back here, but for you, I’ll make an exception. I charge extra for two at the same time.”
“We’re looking for the guy who was sitting with us,” I said. “Kind of a big beefy guy. Did he come through here?”
The dancer drew his robe closer around himself. “I remember him. Haven’t seen him, but I’ve been on break only a couple minutes. You’ll have to ask Charley.”
“Where’s he?” I asked.
The dancer nodded his head toward another door farther back. Through this we strode. This room was maybe eight-by-eight with a large metal desk in the middle, three filing cabinets against the far wall, and a door to our right.
A fat man smoking a cigar gave us a brief glance. He wore a T-shirt with holes in it. A ledger book was open in front of him. He wrote several figures into it, then raised an eyebrow in our direction.
“I got a license,” he said. “Or if you aren’t the cops or the city inspector, I don’t provide the dancing boys for prostitution. I run a clean place here. I can’t get you any favors.”
“Did a big guy with greased-down hair go through here a few minutes ago?” I asked.
“Nope. I’m busy. You don’t belong here. Leave.”
I marched over and opened the far door.
“Hey, what do you think you’re doing?” The fat guy lumbered over.
I ignored him and peered out into an alley. I saw no sign of Brad. The fat man grabbed my arm. I shook him off and said, “Is there any other way out of here?”
“Fuck off, buddy!”
Obviously he wasn’t going to win Miss Congeniality of this alley.
I looked over my shoulder at Scott. “You sure he didn’t go out the front?”
“Positive,” he said.
“Get out of here!” the fat guy roared.
“Okay,” I said. We walked out the back door.
6
To our right, the backs of buildings extended twenty feet and ended in a chain-link gate which prevented egress in that direction. To the left the alley twisted and curved toward Wrightwood Avenue. Because it had only one exit, the alley was unfrequented.
“I don’t like this place,” Scott said.
“We’ll hurry.”
The gray and chill of the day before had returned on a rising northeast breeze. The mid-October afternoon gave a grim forewarning of an unpleasant winter.
I zipped the jacket Lester had brought me and pulled the collar closer around me.
The buildings surrounding the alley presented bleak, soot-encrusted faces toward us and cast elaborate shadows that made the alley seem even cooler and more sinister than it needed to be. I wished I had a heavier coat. At the last curve before Wrightwood, Scott grabbed my arm and pointed. I saw a row of behemoth-sized plastic garbage cans. In the gathered shadows behind them at ground level, I saw a hint of blue fabric.
Scott hurried over and moved one of the containers. Behind it was Brad. Together we stooped over him. He was on his back. I saw blood seeping from a wound above his left ear. The seam on the right sleeve of his jacket had been ripped open.
“How bad is it?” Scott asked.
“Let’s get those two fags!” a voice called.
I looked up to see five guys who all looked to be in their mid to late teens approaching us from the Wrightwood Avenue end of the alley. It is far too common for gangs of young straight guys to come into gay neighborhoods, hang around, and wait for gay people to beat up. These guys must have known the exit for the Womb, that the alley was rarely used and waited for victims.
I stood up and faced them. I felt powerful and invulnerable as adrenaline rushed through me. I didn’t see any weapons. I knew that Scott and I could take care of any five unarmed teenagers.
“Let’s take them,” I said.
Scott yelled, “Fire!”
The five teenagers gave him an odd look. They took a couple of paces forward. Scott continued to bellow. Scott’s response was certainly one of the ones that was highly recommended by police departments.
A scrawny bepimpled kid, the shortest one of them with the scraggliest hair said, “Nobody’s going to hear them. It’s a bluff. We can take them.�
�
Nevertheless, three of them hesitated.
Scott tried shouting “fire” again, but no people appeared at any of the dirt begrimed windows or at the dilapidated and padlocked doors.
“Ain’t nobody but us and the fags,” said the skinny kid. He came forward with the confidence that his buddies would follow.
I decided not to wait for rescue or for them to make a concerted move. I launched myself toward the biggest one—maybe as tall as me, but at least fifty pounds heavier. He went into a defensive crouch. At the last second, I pivoted to the right away from him and slapped the palm of my hand up and into the bridge of the skinny kid’s nose. He collapsed to the ground. One of them grabbed me from behind. I lifted my right foot and brought the heel back sharply against his shin. He let go. The big one tried to grab me in a bear hug. As he reached, I sent my hand darting for a grasp at his genitals. I connected with soft folds of the front of his jeans and a significant portion of his dick and balls. I did my best to crush them in my grip. He screamed and fell to his knees.
Scott had the wrist of one of the others, held up against the kid’s back almost to the neck. The fifth one ran off.
The wailing of fire-truck sirens made a delicious noise. Someone had been listening. The firemen called the cops. When they arrived, I told them for sure we wanted to press charges. They took the kids away. The official constabulary was impressed that one of the guys having been attacked was Scott Carpenter the famous baseball player, but seemed a trifle confused when he and I insisted that it was a hate crime—gay—bashing—and not just an ordinary mugging.
An older cop with grizzled white hair and a limp took down all the information. He wanted us to take Brad to a hospital. Soon after the arrival of all the official personages, Brad sat up. He claimed he didn’t want assistance. I wanted him at the police station as soon as possible. It might be going over the police radio about the identity of the mugging victim as a well-known baseball player. That could alert all kinds of people, some of whom were not out to act in our best interest.
“Why’d you run out on us?” I asked at one point while the police were busy loading teenagers into the squadrol, Chicago’s version of what in an old gangster movie would have been called a paddy wagon.
An Echo of Death Page 10
