by Dorien Grey
“Yes.” I was somehow vaguely disturbed by the question. “For the moment, anyway.”
“Good,” Richman said without further explanation. There was another long pause while I continued on my mental-masochist marathon, but trying to calm myself down.
“The only thing I can think of in regards to the current situation, is to take the offensive. We’ll lay everything out to Chief Black—assuming he’ll listen—and maybe we can offer Cochran a trade: No action on Tom Brady for no action on Joey Giacomino. I know the chief’s going to hate like hell to do it, but the only other alternative is for both sides to come out with cannons firing, and everybody loses. At least this way we can gain some time. I hope we can count on the fact of Deputy Chief Cochran’s having too many skeletons in his closet to risk his association with Giacomino’s shaking them all loose. Keep your fingers crossed. If you’re going to be home tonight, I’ll try to stop over and give you any news.”
“I’ll be there. And I’m so fucking sorry I…”
He cut me off. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about: You had no way of knowing any of this. So I’ll talk to you later.”
We exchanged good-byes and hung up.
I was feeling like a ten-pound bag of dog crap but was able to put the mental whips away and focus on my anger against Cochran and his entire crew. And as for Tom…well, whatever happened, he could handle it.
*
My first reaction was to get over to Tom’s immediately and warn him, and then I realized: About what? I was the only one to whom he was at all likely to be saying anything that might give any listeners-in even a hint that he was gay, and we’d already neatly handed them that one on a silver tray. It had occurred to me, too, as I tried to calm myself down, that to do a twenty-four-hour phone tap on someone would require a lot of manpower and effort—and multiply that by three if Tom’s, my, and Lieutenant Richman’s were the only ones being tapped. Maybe it was just sporadic; maybe they hadn’t heard that particular conversation.
Uh huh, my mind said.
Hey, it’s my straw and I’ll cling to it if I want, I replied.
By the time I’d returned to the office, I’d managed to hand over control to my stoic side: What was done was done, and there was little point in getting too worked up over it. I was getting pretty good at that, I must admit, and was pretty proud of myself for it.
Then I checked the message on the answering machine.
“Dick, this is Tony Mason at Haven House. Could you call me right away, please?”
Double Shit!
My stomach immediately knotted up, and when I saw my hand automatically reaching for the phone, I yanked it back and headed back out the door. This was going to get very old, very fast, I told myself.
I stopped at the lobby newsstand and asked Charlie, the proprietor, for five dollars’ worth of change. I was going to need it, I suspected.
I dialed Haven House’s number from one of the payphones.
“Hi.” I didn’t recognize the voice.
“Hi. Is Reverend Mason there?”
“Sure, just a sec.” The phone was put down, and I could hear several voices in the background, and music, but no call “Hey, Reverend,” so I assumed whomever had answered had gone to get him. A minute later, the phone was picked up.
“Reverend Mason.”
“Tony, it’s Dick, returning your call.”
“Ah, Dick, thanks. Jonathan didn’t want to call you, but I thought I’d best.”
The knot was still in my stomach. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m not really sure, but when he came into the house, he was acting…a little strange. I thought at first maybe you and he had had some sort of argument, but he kept going to the front window and looking out to the street. And he seemed nervous. I asked him if anything was wrong, and he said ‘no,’ but I’m afraid I didn’t believe him. Since he’d been with you, I thought perhaps you might have an idea.”
“No,” I said honestly. “When I dropped him off he was fine. Maybe I should talk to him. Can you put him on?”
“Sure. Just a moment.” And I heard the phone being laid down, then only the background voices and music, and a couple kids laughing.
What the hell could have happened? I wondered. I just left him not forty-five minutes ago.
“Hello?”
“Jonathan…did something happen?” There was a long pause. “Jonathan?”
“They followed us, Dick.”
“Who?” The knot in my stomach got bigger.
“Those cops. As soon as you drove off, and I started up the stairs and into the house, I turned around and this car pulled up to the curb…just for a second, but I saw this guy lean toward the passenger’s window just far enough so’s he could see me, then he drove off. It wasn’t the one I saw at your building; it was the other one.” There was a pause, and then: “I don’t think I like this, Dick. Why would they follow us?”
To find out where you live, my mind said. And I didn’t like it, either.
“Tell you what, Jonathan,” I said, trying to sound casual, “you just stick around there for a while, and I’ll call you back, okay? I want to check on something.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t leave the house. And don’t worry about anything. I’ll get back to you in just a bit. ’Bye.”
*
Oh, I didn’t like it! Not one bit! Under normal circumstances, I could probably have chalked it up to my just being my usual mildly paranoid self, but after my conversation with Richman…and my phone was being tapped, for Chrissakes! And little puzzle pieces of information were falling into place and starting to form a very ugly picture. I’d just paraded Jonathan in front of two guys who not only looked very much like they could hold a grudge, but who wouldn’t be averse to currying a little favor with the anti-Black team by reporting Richman’s taking the side of a fag hustler over his fellow officers’. I remembered what Richman had said about the two officers being in Cochran’s pocket.
Everything that had happened thus far—our meeting with the cops, the one cop showing up at my office building, Jonathan seeing the other one in front of Haven House—had happened in too short a time-frame to think Cochran was even aware of it…yet. But the two cops were certainly aware that Cochran was looking for anything at all to paint Chief Black as being soft on fags. I was sure they considered keeping track of Jonathan a way to gain a few points with Cochran. I doubted they had any idea of the link between Jonathan and the van and Giacomino.
But I’ll bet Cochran would know where the links led, and that he’d be very happy to know where Jonathan was. If Richman could trace the van numbers I’d given him over a tapped line, so could whoever might have been listening in. I think I realized for the first time just how much of a threat Jonathan might be perceived to be. And if he was considered a threat—most directly to Joey G. but by extension to the anti-Black forces in the department—Jonathan could be in real danger.
The only thing I could think of was to get Jonathan out of Haven House, and fast, before the two cops could pass on their information to Cochran. My mind was apparently a couple steps ahead of me, for I found myself reaching for my billfold and looking for Tim and Phil’s new phone number. Hoping against hope that Phil might be home, I dropped some more coins in the pay phone and dialed.
“Hello?”
Thank you, God!
“Phil! I didn’t think you’d be home, but I’m glad you are!”
“Hi, Dick.” He sounded just a bit hesitant and I could tell he probably read something in my voice. “I’ve got the day off. What’s up?”
I knew what I was going to ask was a huge imposition—he and Tim had just moved in together, and were still just getting to know one another, really—but if you can’t impose on your friends…?
“Phil,” I began, “I need a favor—a really big one….”
*
I was sitting by a window at Denny’s, on my second cup of what the menu laughingly referred to as coffee,
when a car drove up to the front entrance and Jonathan got out, carrying his battered little backpack. He put it on the ground and turned back to offer his hand to Reverend Mason, who had leaned across to the passenger’s side to shake it. I was keeping my eye on the street, to see if there was any evidence that they’d been followed. I kept looking while they exchanged a few words, then Jonathan closed the door and waved as the car drove off. He watched it go, then picked up his bag and headed for the door of the restaurant. No other cars had passed or, within line of my sight, pulled over to the curb, so I relaxed a little.
Jonathan came in, looked around, spotted me, and came over, putting his backpack on the seat nearest the window. He did not look particularly happy.
“I really liked it there,” he said wistfully, obviously referring to Haven House. “Did I have to leave?”
I nodded. “At least for awhile.”
I didn’t want to worry him any more than I had to.
“Now that those cops know where you live, I didn’t want them coming around to hassle you or anybody else at the house.”
The waitress came over and Jonathan ordered coffee and, at my insistence that he get something to eat if he was hungry, an order of French toast.
“But why did I have to tell everybody I was going home? I’m not going back to Wisconsin; not right now.”
I tried to give him a reassuring smile. “Well, that way if anybody asks where you are…”
“You mean the cops.”
I nodded. “…Everybody at the house can tell them you went back to Wisconsin and they won’t know they aren’t telling the truth.”
The waitress brought his coffee and we sat in silence for a minute or two.
“So how come you didn’t come to the house to get me?”
“Because I didn’t want anyone to see you driving off with me. I want everyone to think you’ve really gone.”
Jonathan took a sip of his coffee, made a face, and emptied two packets of sugar and three little packets of dry dairy creamer into the cup.
“So where am I going?” He stirred the floating mound of powdered creamer to dissolve it.
“I have two really good friends, Phil and Tim, who have an extra bedroom you can use until things calm down. They’re great guys, and I know you’ll like them. Phil used to be a hustler, so he can understand where you’re coming from, and it might be good for you to have someone to talk to who’s been where you’ve been.”
Jonathan’s French toast arrived and he asked for another little pitcher of syrup. When the waitress went off to get it, he poured the syrup she’d brought with the order over one piece, then looked up at me.
“How come you’re doing all this for me? Why should you care what happens to me?”
I smiled and carefully looked him in the eye. “Because I do.”
“Then how come you never want to have sex with me?”
Good question, kid.
I had to think about how to answer that one. “Because I think it’s important right now for you to know that there are people who can be your friend without expecting sex in return.”
You talk a good game, Hardesty, my mind said skeptically.
“What if I really want it?”
Gotcha! my crotch chimed in.
Luckily, the waitress showed up just then with the extra syrup and to ask the mandatory: “Everything okay?” We both nodded.
I’d rather hoped the distraction would have sidetracked his thought, but I saw his eyes were still on me, expecting an answer.
“Let’s talk about that after all this is over, okay?”
He must have seen something in my eyes that I didn’t know was there, because the corners of his mouth curved up into a very Mona Lisa type smile.
“Okay,” he said, and picked up the extra syrup.
*
On the drive over to Phil and Tim’s, I told Jonathan about how I’d gotten to know each of them, and how they’d gotten together. He seemed especially intrigued about Phil’s past—which was hardly surprising—and I really hoped Phil could be something of a role model for him.
I’d made sure, of course, when I’d called Phil, that he would get Tim’s okay on having an unexpected houseguest before I brought Jonathan over. Since they were still in something of a honeymoon stage, I knew Tim called Phil several times a day whenever Phil wasn’t working. Phil never called Tim at work, of course, since Tim was one of the thousands of not-closeted-but-not-open-at-work gays working for local government agencies. And not surprisingly, the Coroner’s Office, for which Tim worked, was a rather by-the-book group. Tim was sure almost everyone he worked with knew he was gay, but he was out to only a couple of them. And Tim always called from a pay phone.
Anyway, Tim had called Phil shortly after I did, they discussed it and, as I knew he would, Tim said “Sure!” I’d waited at the office until Phil called me back to let me know—without mentioning Jonathan or referring to house guests, of course, and that set off the chain of events that led us to heading for their apartment.
Jonathan had regained some of his puppy attributes on the drive, apparently having been reassured that he might be able to return to Haven House before long, and alternated questions about Tim and Phil with accounts of how his room at Haven House was coming and what color he was going to paint it and the posters he wanted to get for the walls and…well, Jonathan-talk.
I’d never been to Tim and Phil’s new place myself, yet, but was pleasantly surprised to find it was in an almost-new, three-story apartment building not too far from The Central. It had, Tim told me, in fact been built and was run by a gay-owned management company, which probably accounted for the fact that it had some character.
Jeezus, what a heterophobe! my mind snorted.
We walked through the small courtyard, Jonathan commenting approvingly on the small trees and plantings, and entered the small, enclosed foyer, where I found “P. Stark/T. Jackson: 314” and pressed the button beside it.
“Dick?” Phil’s voice asked from somewhere I couldn’t identify. There was no button for me to press to respond, so I just said: “Yeah, it’s us” to no one in particular, and there was a soft click as the door unlocked. We entered a small lobby with an open stairway on either side and directly in front of us an elevator. I pressed the button for the elevator, and the doors opened immediately.
“Nice place,” Jonathan said.
The doors opened again on the third floor, and I faced four floor-to-ceiling narrow windows that I’d noticed as we’d come through the courtyard. About ten feet to the left and right of the elevator, were hallways running back into the building. The wall of the hallway to the left of the elevator had a neat but decorative arrow beside the numbers “301-315”, and on the right hallway “302-314”. We wisely chose the right hallway.
314 was at the far end of the hall, and Phil was standing at the open door to the apartment when we arrived. We exchanged hugs and then I motioned Jonathan forward and introduced him. I could see Jonathan was notably impressed. Phil appeared completely oblivious to Jonathan’s still-all-too-obvious cuts and bruises, and guided us into the apartment.
“Wow, this is really nice. You’ve got goldfish!” he said, spotting a large aquarium in one corner of the living room.
“My God, you’ve turned domestic on me!” I said, approvingly.
Phil grinned. “Sort of, I guess. We found out we both like fish, so we went for it. We’ve only got a few—those little buggers are expensive. We saw a couple we really wanted, but we’re going to have to wait awhile on those. But, hey, you only live once.”
The apartment wasn’t large, but it was very comfortable. I recognized pieces from both Phil’s old apartment and Tim’s, and a few new things, including the aquarium. There was a small semi-open dining room, through which I could see into the kitchen through Dutch doors. A short hallway, one wall of which was shared with the dining area, revealed two doors on the right, and a good-sized bathroom at the end.
Noticing Jon
athan still holding on to his backpack, Phil said: “Come on, Jonathan, I’ll show you your room.”
*
I left Jonathan in Phil’s capable hands at around 11:30. Before I left I cautioned both of them that, because my office—and quite probably my home, for all I knew—phone was tapped, Jonathan was not to call me at any time, either at home or at the office. I promised I would call him frequently from pay phones. Phil and I agreed that it was probably advisable for Tim not to call me at all, either. I did not want to get him into any trouble with the city bureaucracy. And with Phil as my only direct contact, we agreed that when one or the other of us did call using my home or office phone, neither of us was to mention Jonathan.
It occurred to me that all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, as Richman had called it, may have been a little excessive, and I fervently hoped so, but I figured it was infinitely better to be safe than sorry.
*
Since I wanted to make sure Tom had had enough time to get home from the doctor’s, I made a quick swing by the office to deliberately make a few phone calls. I didn’t want whoever had planted the tap—as if I didn’t have a pretty good idea—to know I was aware of it. Though it never would have occurred to me under normal circumstances, I carefully listened during pauses in the conversation and, sure enough, I could hear an odd little “click” every couple seconds—proof positive, if I’d needed any, that the line was tapped.
After I’d made the last call, I headed out again. I’d thought about stopping at the pay phones in the lobby to call Tom, then thought better of it. I’d just go right over to his place and if he wasn’t home yet, I’d wait.
On the way over, to kill a few extra minutes, I took a drive down Beech. I don’t know, maybe I just wanted that sense of security that being in the heart of The Central gave me; knowing that three out of any four people I passed were my own people. I noticed, as I passed the corner of Beech and Ash, that the new police substation was nearly finished, and they’d begun excavating for a parking garage directly across the street. The substation was scheduled to open the week following the upcoming gay pride festival. The initial strong objections to the station had largely waned as the community’s trust in Chief Black’s desire to make positive changes grew. And the incident involving Tom certainly helped. A gay cop! One of our own! On the force!
