by Dorien Grey
The women coming out of Ruthie’s backed off immediately, but not the attackers, including the guy I’d pulled off the woman. He punched me, hard, in the stomach, and I came up with an uppercut that snapped his head back sharply and sent him crashing backwards into the wall.
I saw one of the group kicking Jim step back, reach one hand behind his back, and bring out a gun he’d apparently had in his waistband, just as the guy with the pipe standing over Jim raised it over his head with both hands.
I heard Tom yell “Freeze!” and saw the start of the downward swing of the pipe, toward Jim’s head. Then there were three quick shots, a couple screams, and the sound of running as four or five of the attackers headed down the alley. The guy I’d been fighting with tried to follow, but I grabbed him and slammed him into the wall again. A couple guys from Griff’s and some of the women from Ruthie’s appeared and held him to keep him from getting away as the sound of approaching sirens grew closer. I saw Cory running to kneel down beside Jim, trying to turn him over.
When I looked around, there were four people on the ground: Jim, the guy with the pipe, the guy with the gun…and Tom.
Chapter 3
The rest was a blur. I immediately ran over to Tom and was relieved to see him struggling to sit up. He had his right hand against his left shoulder, and blood seeped between his fingers. While I’m sure it hurt like hell, it appeared that it wasn’t life threatening. He managed a weak grin and tried to get to his feet, but I told him to stay where he was. I stayed with him until the squad cars started pulling up, and I was pushed back with the crowd. A moment or two later, the ambulances arrived and took Jim and Tom away: Cory and the two women were battered, but did not require an ambulance; the two attackers were beyond needing one, and were covered over with yellow tarps.
Cory had wanted to go immediately to the hospital to be with Jim, but the cops asked him to stay to give his statement. Other cops on the scene started taking the names and addresses of everyone who had seen anything at all, and a couple plainclothes detectives showed up and took Cory and the two women aside to question them. I recognized both the detectives and hoped to hell they wouldn’t see me.
I just wanted to get the hell away from there, but a squad car was blocking my car and I couldn’t. I wanted to stay as far out of it as I could, for obvious reasons. I knew they’d ask me about Tom, and what we were doing there. I just tried to slowly back myself away, but then Cory looked around and pointed at me and I knew I’d had it.
Shit!
One of the plainclothesmen—Detective Crouch…no, Couch—looked at me, nudged the other—Detective…Carpenter—and they waved me over to them.
“Detectives,” I said by way of acknowledgment. I’d had a minor run in with the two partners on an earlier case, and I’d managed to piss Detective Couch off royally. From the way he looked at me, I could see he hadn’t forgotten.
“You know Officer Brady?” Carpenter asked.
“Yes,” I said, “I went to college with him and his wife.” Sliiide that one right in there, Hardesty, I thought.
“And what was Officer Brady doing in a gay bar?” Couch asked, scowling at me, then added: “Oh, yes, that’s right. You’re…gay…aren’t you?’
One of Chief Black’s innovations had been to require every officer in the department to attend classes in dealing with minorities—including gays—, which was widely applauded by the citizenry, but generally regarded as a waste of time by some of the department’s old guard.
While I was glad to see Chief Black’s sensitivity training program was having some effect, in that Couch didn’t use one of the other words he undoubtedly would have preferred, the way this guy said “gay” made it sound like an infectious disease.
“Yes. Your point being…?”
“So what was Officer Brady doing in a gay bar?” Couch repeated.
“Because I invited him to come. His wife is out of town for the weekend, so we decided to spend some time together. Officer Brady puts friendship above passing judgment. And I think we should all be pretty damned glad he was in that bar, or it could have been a lot worse for the people whose lives he probably saved.”
“Yeah,” Couch muttered, “two lesbos and a…”
Carpenter shot him a withering look, and Couch abruptly shut up.
“I apologize for my partner,” Carpenter said. “He…”
I turned to Couch and stared at him until he looked at me, defiantly. “Detective Couch,” I said, being very careful not to let my anger show, “I’m sure you’re a good detective and a good man, but you have one hell of a lot to learn. I might suggest you consider spending some time in a gay bar. It might do you good.” Realizing he would undoubtedly take that the wrong way, I looked at his partner, who had always struck me as being a little more open minded.
“You can interpret that for him sometime,” I said.
Carpenter gave me an almost imperceptible nod, then immediately said: “So exactly what happened here?”
And I told him what I knew.
*
While I was really concerned about Tom, I didn’t try to go to the hospital. I knew he’d be in deep enough shit without having a known faggot hovering over him. I was pretty sure they would keep him overnight and probably release him in the morning. I’d call him at home then.
*
The shooting was the lead story on the morning news, and made the front page of the Sunday paper. While the newspaper article had obviously been hastily patched together, owing to the relatively short time between the incident and press time: 2 Dead in Gang Attack, the TV reports did go into a bit more detail, including giving Tom’s name. It was interesting for what all the reports didn’t say as well as for what they did: Two women had been attacked outside “a bar” on Parker Boulevard, and two men coming to their aid were severely beaten, one of them reported to be in critical condition in City General hospital. When an off-duty policeman arrived on the scene a gunfight ensued in which two of the attackers, believed to be members of the Turf Lords gang, were shot and killed by the officer, who himself sustained a gunshot wound to the shoulder.
One of the TV stations (I flipped back and forth between them) even somehow had managed to show Tom’s photo, apparently from the award ceremony after he’d saved the officer trapped in the burning squad car. I had a sneaking suspicion that the fact that not one of the reports mentioned the gay aspect of the story just might have been in response to a request from the department. I somehow found that fact more than a little disturbing.
I also felt guilty about not going to the hospital to see Tom, or to make sure he got home okay if, as I suspected and hoped, they had released him. But I knew it would not be a good idea. I waited until about ten o’clock Sunday morning, then called his apartment. There was no answer, and I began to get worried.
I’d just determined to take a walk over to his place and check when the phone rang.
“Dick Hardesty,” I said, wondering as usual why I always insisted on using my last name when I answered the phone, even at home.
“Dick, hi. It’s Tom.”
Well of course it is, I thought, relieved to hear his voice.
“Tom!” I was mildly surprised by the sound of relief in my own voice. “Where are you? How are you?”
His voice sounded tired when he said: “I’m home, and I’m fine. Sore, but fine. I’ve been here about an hour, but I haven’t been answering the phone. Did you try to call?”
“Yeah, I’ve been worried about you, and I wanted to apologize for bailing out on you last night. But when I realized you were probably going to live, I just felt that discretion was the better part of valor.”
Tom managed a small laugh. “Probably just as well. I had department people all over me most of the night, wanting every detail of the shooting. Luckily they spent more time on the shooting itself than on what I was doing in a gay bar; I gather they’d talked to you at the scene from what one of the detectives said. But I suspect the gay issue wi
ll resurface soon. If I hadn’t been shot and effectively taken off the duty roster, I’d probably have been suspended as a matter of course while they investigated. There’ll be a hearing, of course, which is standard procedure when a police officer is involved in a fatal shooting.”
He paused, then said “You want to come on over? We could talk easier in person, I think.”
“Sure. Did you have breakfast? I could stop at the deli and get something.”
“No, thanks. I had breakfast—at least that’s what they called it—at the hospital while I was waiting for them to release me.”
Again I felt guilty for not having been there to bring him home, but forced myself to put it aside.
“Okay. I’ll be right over.”
When we hung up, I grabbed a quick piece of toast and a glass of orange juice, then put on my shoes and left for Tom’s. About halfway there, I remembered his gun case, which was still lying open on the floor of the passenger’s side of my car, and I returned to get it.
*
Tom opened the door looking pale and tired, but otherwise none the worse for wear. He was shirtless, and had a large bandage from the base of his neck to his left shoulder. His left arm was in a sling. We shook hands, then he closed the door and, seeing that I’d brought his gun case, he reached out with his free arm and gave me a sort of sideways hug, careful not to involve his left side. I returned the hug gingerly.
He grinned as we released the hug. “I’m not made of glass, you know.”
“I can see that,” I said, giving his bare torso an appreciative once-over.
“Want some coffee?”
I followed him toward the love seats, pausing to lay the gun case on the coffee table.
“Sure, if you’ve got some made—or I could make some, if you’d like.”
“Thanks, mom, but you don’t have to fuss over me. I managed to make a pot when I got home.”
I aborted my rear-end’s descent onto the love seat and followed him into the kitchen.
“Have you called Lisa?”
Tom reached into one of the cabinets for a coffee mug. “Nah. They’ll be back tonight. No point in spoiling their day.”
He poured my coffee, then refilled his own cup, which sat beside the coffee maker, and we went back to the living room and sat down side by side on one of the love seats.
“Did you hear how Jim’s doing?” I asked, putting my hand on his leg.
Tom took a swig of coffee before nodding and saying: “Yeah, I stopped by to look in on him just before I left. He’s out of intensive care, but still in pretty bad shape. Several broken ribs, a ruptured spleen, and some internal bleeding, from what I understand. His partner…Cory?…was with him. He was lucky he ran for help, or they both could have ended up dead—the women, too.”
“They seemed to have come through it pretty well, all things considered,” I observed. I’d only caught a couple glimpses of them after the incident. They both looked like they’d been in a fight, but I guess it wasn’t bad enough for them to have to go to the hospital. But Tom was right, they were pretty lucky.
“What about the gay thing?”
Tom put his cup down on the coffee table, made a slight grimace when he apparently moved his left shoulder too fast, then leaned slowly back upright and looked at me with another grin, as if apologizing for the grimace. “The two detectives who interviewed me first were the ones who talked to you: Couch and Carpenter. They wanted to know exactly what my relationship with you was. I skipped over the part about us spending a lot of time in bed together. But I did tell them we had been friends since college: you, me and Lisa,” he added, then scowled and shook his head. “Damn it! I hate having to run and hide behind Lisa! I hate not being able to just say ‘Yeah, I’m gay; so what?’ But I just haven’t been around the department long enough to do that yet. Maybe, in a couple of years….”
Dream on, kid, I thought.
He carefully leaned forward to pick up his cup and take another mouthful, draining it. “The taller one…Carpenter…did most of the talking. Couch didn’t say much but he glowered a lot. I got the feeling you aren’t one of his favorite people. It was pretty obvious that as far as he’s concerned, no real man could ever be friends with a fucking faggot. But they really didn’t push too hard. Later, two guys from Internal Affairs came in and I guess they had talked to the first two, because they didn’t ask any direct questions about it, either. But I’m not foolish enough to think I’m off the hook just yet.”
I finished my coffee and offered to go get Tom some more, but he shook his head, then gave me a big grin.
“You know one thing I found out about being shot?”
Puzzled, I shook my head. “No. What’s that?”
“It makes me horny as all hell!”
I looked at him, wide-eyed. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“And how in the hell are we supposed to manage that without sending you back to the hospital?”
Tom reached over with his good hand and slid it behind my neck, pulling me toward him.
“Improvise.”
*
I stayed with Tom until Lisa and Carol got home around eight. They were both shocked to find out what had happened, and Lisa was angry and a little hurt that Tom hadn’t called her immediately.
The phone had rung almost constantly all the time I was there, but Tom had been advised not to talk to anyone—especially the press. I thought of volunteering to field calls, but immediately realized that would not be the smartest thing in the world to do, given the circumstances. A police officer involved in a shooting outside a gay bar having his phone answered by a man other than the officer himself…uh, no….
I went home about nine o’clock, to find several messages on my answering machine: Jared, Bob Allen, Glen O’Banyon—now that was a surprise—Tim and Phil; all of them had heard I’d been at the scene of the shooting. How in hell they’d found that out, I have no idea, since while Tom’s name had been mentioned, mine certainly hadn’t. But I should have realized that a story like this would sweep through the entire gay community in a heartbeat. And the fact that Tom was gay was part of the beat.
Since Glen O’Banyon had left his home phone number—the first time I’d ever had it—I returned his call first. The phone rang several times and I was just about to hang up when I heard the receiver being lifted and O’Banyon’s voice: “Glen O’Banyon.”
“Glen, hi. Dick Hardesty. Sorry I missed your call; I just got home.”
“No problem. I heard about the shooting—as a matter of fact, that’s about all I’ve been hearing about all day. How do you manage to do it?”
I was puzzled. “Do what? I didn’t do anything; I was just there.”
There was a note of mild amusement in his voice when he said: “My point exactly. You have a magic knack for being ‘just there.’” Then his voice took on a more serious note. “Your friend Tom Brady is turning into something of an instant hero in the gay community. I’ve never met him, but would like you to pass along word to him that if he needs legal representation, have him give me a call.”
I was more than a little impressed. While O’Banyon’s being gay was an open secret, he had always been careful never to flaunt it. His power and success gave him access to the upper strata of straight society, and his financial support and leadership qualities had earned him a seat on the boards of several influential charities. He had also been very shrewd in avoiding making enemies in the department, partly by having established, and largely supported, a scholarship fund for the children of police officers killed in the line of duty. Not even the most homophobic members of the force would dare openly attack him. So given all these factors, his offer meant a hell of a lot.
“Tom will be very grateful to hear that, Glen. Thank you. I certainly hope it never comes to that, but if it did…well, Tom wouldn’t want you to put yourself on the line for him.”
“Nonsense. That’s what lawyers do, and if anybody in the department
gets his nose out of joint, tough. If Chief Black were totally in charge now, your friend very well may not need one at all. But given the power struggles going on in the department, I’m pretty sure Chief Black’s enemies will jump on this as a way to undermine him. The very idea that there may be a gay officer in a department with as strong a tradition of rampant homophobia as ours is, I’m afraid, just too explosive an issue for Black’s foes to ignore. I suspect this whole thing has the potential to get very messy.”
“Yeah. Plus, were you aware that Tom’s wife is Chief Black’s goddaughter?”
“Ah, so it’s true. I’d heard something about their being related; but I don’t think a goddaughter/godfather relationship exactly qualifies as nepotism. Still, it’s interesting to note, and I’m sure it will add fuel to the fire.” He was quiet a moment, then said: “Just let Officer Brady know I’m here if he needs me.”
“I’ll do that, Glen,” I said, sincerely impressed. “Thank you again.”
“Keep me posted.”
We hung up shortly thereafter and I called Jared, Bob, and Phil and Tim in order. Each of them expressed their admiration for what Tom had done, and any support they may be able to provide if the issue of Tom’s being gay became a major problem. And each commented on the sense of…pride probably describes it best…sweeping through the community at the thought that one of their own might actually be on the front lines of integrating the police force. Everyone knew, of course, that there were other gays on the force, but this was the first time a specific name had emerged, and in circumstances so directly involving the community.
