by Dorien Grey
“A hell of a lot better than I would under the same circumstances.”
Richman sighed. “Yeah, I know. We’re trying to keep as close an eye on things as we can, and if anything overt happens, we’ll jump in. But we can’t really do much. Cochran’s boys are just praying for us to give them something they can use against the Chief Black. Coddling homosexuals or favoritism/nepotism, they don’t really care what it is as long as they can use it. And I’m pretty sure Cochran is subtly egging his guys on, watching for our reaction. But the result is—and I’m sure as hell not proud of it—that Officer Brady is pretty much on his own. But he looks like he’s strong enough to handle it.”
I nodded. “He is.” I reached into the bag for the two little plastic spoons for the coleslaw, handing him one, and a napkin. “I just wish he didn’t have to.”
“Just let him know that we’re watching, and if things start getting out of hand…I was going to say he could come to me, but I don’t think he would.”
I shook my head. “No, he wouldn’t. He thinks he can take on the world all by himself, and I feel so fucking frustrated for not being able to help him.”
Richman nodded and sighed again, wadding up the sandwich wrapper in one hand and dropping it into the open but now empty bag.
“Well,” he said, “just let him know that my door is always open for him, if he needs me. Chief Black is between a rock and a hard place on this one. If Officer Brady were almost any other cop…but he’s not. He’s an outstanding young man who in less than a year on the force has saved the life of a fellow officer and several civilians, he was head of his class at the Academy…. No police force with any self respect or any hope of having the respect of the people it serves can just toss an officer like that aside, which is exactly what Cochran is trying his best to do. And the fact that Brady has an association, however nebulous, with the chief only makes Cochran particularly want to use him against the chief. It’s a real mess.”
I wondered if he knew about the phone calls, or the harassment at work; but I couldn’t mention them, because Tom wouldn’t want me to.
*
Meanwhile, the labor negotiations dragged on, growing more bitter every day as it became increasingly apparent even to his fellow union negotiators that Joey G. was in over his head. He could bully and yell as well as his old man, but did not have the old man’s savvy or negotiating skills. Management had offered a good, solid package, giving some concessions aimed at influencing other members of the labor team to convince Joey G. to bring the contracts before the union membership for a vote. But Joey wouldn’t have it, and the Giacomino name alone kept even those who may have wanted to intervene from doing so. When management gave an inch, Joey took it as a sign that he was winning, and demanded a foot.
Much of this, of course, was played out in the media, and as the management team began to leak the terms and concessions, even the union’s rank and file, growing weary of the picket lines, began to wonder what in hell Joey was trying to accomplish.
*
Gay Pride weekend was rapidly approaching, and the Pride Parade Committee wrote a formal letter to Chief Black—carefully worded—inviting Officer Tom Brady to be the Parade Grand Marshall “out of gratitude for Officer Brady’s actions in protecting members of the gay and lesbian community.”
Chief Black wrote an open letter to the Committee, equally carefully worded, thanking them for their offer, but stating that “since any member of this department would have behaved exactly as Officer Brady had under the same circumstances, to single him out for special attention would place too much emphasis on one incident of police bravery to the unintentional detriment of the countless other officers who display equal bravery and courage every day in the course of their service to the city.”
By absolutely no coincidence whatsoever, the Journal-Sentinel, the city’s smallest-circulation but most strident newspaper, noted for screaming headlines just a step or two above the “Man Eats Own Foot!” style of the supermarket tabloids, ran a front page story of the “rumored rift” within the police department under the thick black-lettered headline: “A Department in Crisis!” The fact that this “rift” had been common knowledge since Chief Black was appointed was not mentioned. There was even a short one-paragraph reference to “strong allegations of rampant homosexuality” within the department’s ranks. While Cochran’s loose agreement with the chief prevented him from speaking out directly, it wasn’t too hard to figure out to which “high ranking officials in the department” the story could be attributed. Boldly laying out the obvious friction between the “imported” Chief Black and “the department’s proven and respected old guard,” the article reported the “deep and growing concern” of many on the force that “certain elements” were trying to ferment civil unrest by undermining the solid Christian family values upon which the force was founded. The fact that this logic would be specious even if it could be called logic mattered not a whit to the paper’s editors.
That afternoon, as I was getting ready to head for home, I got a call from an obviously badly shaken Lisa. She had come home to find a note taped to their mailbox. The note said “Fag Cops Die.”
Chapter 9
I went over to their apartment immediately after work, on the pretext of just a casual drop-in visit, but of course Lisa had shown Tom the note and Tom knew the minute I walked in the door that she had told me. While Lisa went into the kitchen to get us some coffee, I sat with Tom in the living room.
“You’ve got to tell someone at the department. This is going way too far.”
“Like who?” he asked, not quite able to keep the sarcasm from his voice.
“Like Lieutenant Richman!”
Tom gave me a small smile and shook his head. “No. Richman’s one of Chief Black’s main supporters. That would play right into Cochran’s hands—his boys would just love me running to the chief for help.”
“Jeezus, Tom, you’ve got to do something! Do you still have the note?”
Tom shrugged. “No, I tore it up and pitched it, just like the others.”
“The others?!?” I asked, incredulous. “There’ve been others?”
“A few,” he said casually, then turned his attention to Lisa, who was coming into the living room with three cups of coffee on a small tray. Since I knew Tom didn’t want to talk about it in front of Lisa, I dropped it. But the last thing my stomach needed just then was a shot of caffeine.
“I talked to dad just before you got here,” Tom said in an obvious attempt to distract me.
“Yeah?” I forced my mind off the notes and what Tom was having to go through. “How are the talks going?”
Tom took a sip of his coffee. “Dad thinks the labor team’s about ready to force Joey to take the contract to the members for a vote. Joey’s fighting it every inch of the way, but I think the rest of them know it’s a good package and it’s not going to get any better. Dad is sure Joey blames him, personally. What a psychotic s.o.b.”
“Well, as long as the thing gets settled. I’ll bet your dad is ready to call it a day.”
Tom nodded. “Everybody is, I think. Except Joey, of course. He wants to tie a string around the moon and hand it to Joe Senior to show him what a big man his little boy is. It ain’t gonna happen.”
Carol was expected over for dinner, and they asked if I’d like to join them, but I declined, with thanks. If I’d thought I’d have been able to talk to Tom alone later, I’d have stayed, but…I had talked to Bob earlier in the day and he’d asked if I wanted to go over and see the new house—and though he didn’t mention Jonathan’s name, I knew he thought it would give me a chance to say hello. I was supposed to meet Bob and Mario at Ramón’s at six; they both had to work later, but were going to take some paint and drop cloths over for a couple of the bedrooms. Jonathan had been busy scraping several layers of wallpaper off and preparing the walls for painting and apparently done a pretty good job of it. They needed to take some window measurements for curtains and shad
es.
I was a couple minutes late—for the first time in living memory—getting to Ramón’s, and every inch of the way I’d thought about Tom and wondered what in hell I could do to help him. To realize the answer was “Nothing” made me feel like shit, and I refused to accept it.
Bob and Mario were waiting when I got there, and though they asked if I wanted to have a drink first, I realized they both had to work later, and I told them I’d hold off until we got back.
On the ride over to the house, they both said how impressed they were with how hard Jonathan had been working, and how much he’d already managed to do.
Then Bob asked how Tom was holding up, and I told them everything: just how bad things were at the department, Tom’s harassment, the notes, and my concern and admiration for him. Bob and I were each other’s sounding boards: We could and did talk about anything that bothered us and, by extension, I included Mario into our little club.
“I hear he’s been getting a real hard time from the other cops,” Mario said, making me wonder how he might possibly have heard it, since Tom surely hadn’t said a word, and this is the first I’d said of it to anyone other than a few friends, whom I trusted not to spread rumors. But then I realized that the situation in and of itself was one that would generate a lot of grist for the rumor mills, especially in light of the department’s long and proud tradition of blatant homophobia.
“Yeah,” Bob said, “I’ve been hearing the same. You’d have thought this would have started to fade away a little bit, but it hasn’t. Almost like someone out there’s trying to keep it on high boil.”
I sighed. “Well, not surprising, I suppose. On our side of the fence are the activists and rabble rousers; on the other side are Cochran’s boys who are just hoping for the community to do something stupid so they’ll have a reason to dump Tom, root out other gays on the force, and blame everything on Chief Black.”
Mario nodded. “The match on one side, the dynamite on the other, and the fuse in the middle. Let’s just hope no one lights it.”
“Amen to that.”
*
When Bob turned a corner and then made a turn into a driveway and pulled up in front of a small coach house, I was duly impressed. The yard was overgrown with weeds and there were several fallen tree limbs lying about; the main house, though obviously long neglected, still retained its dignity, rather like a genteel lady fallen on hard times. It was a great old classic Victorian, complete with several gables and a large “witch’s hat” cupola on the corner facing the two streets.
A large, screened back porch faced the side street and led to the kitchen. Just as we were climbing the steps, Mario carrying the paint and Bob and I with assorted bags and boxes of God knows what, the kitchen door opened and a grinning Jonathan appeared.
Lookin’ good, Jonathan! I thought before I was able to catch myself and give me my usual cautionary lecture.
“Hi, Dick!” he said brightly as he hurried across the porch to open the screen door. “Need help with anything?”
I assumed he was talking to Bob and Mario, but his eyes were on me, as was the smile. Hey, so I like having my ego stroked: Sue me!
“I think we got it all, thanks,” Bob said as we all passed through the held-open screen door and into the kitchen.
The kitchen was, as in most old Victorians, rather impractically huge, with 12-foot ceilings, glass-doored cupboards so tall their top shelves couldn’t be reached without standing on something, a large pantry, and a narrow maid’s stairway leading to the second floor.
The rest of the house, I discovered on the guided tour led by Bob and Mario, with Jonathan not two feet behind me, was equally impressive. An open, wood-columned breakfront separated the formal dining room from the front parlor, with a small study off to one side. Hardwood floors, in need of refinishing but with obvious potential. All the baseboards and moldings had been painted over, but Jonathan had, with Mario’s help, begun to remove the several layers of paint on the frame of the doorway to the study, revealing the beautiful natural oak underneath. A small foyer with a leaded-glass entry door, a formal parlor with fireplace and slide-into-the-wall doors off the foyer, a beautiful leaded glass window at the top of the front stairway. Three large wallpapered bedrooms—one of which Jonathan had already stripped and was well along in the second—and a maid’s room on the second floor and, of course, only one bath, obviously added after the house had been built, with a claw-foot cast iron tub.
They obviously had their work cut out for them.
“This is our first major project,” Mario said of the bathroom. “The plumbers and electricians are supposed to be here later this week. Jonathan will have to take sponge baths and use a chamber pot for a couple days….” He’d said this with a straight face, but when he saw Jonathan’s look of horror, he grinned and reached out to punch him on the arm. “Serious about the sponge bath, but think we can avoid the chamber pot,” he said, to Jonathan’s obviously vast relief. “We’ve decided to use up most of the pantry area for a half-bath. They’ll put that in first.”
“That’s okay,” Jonathan said; “maybe I could go over to Dick’s when I have to go to the bathroom.”
I let that one slide, and Bob said: “Jonathan, why don’t you take Dick up and introduce him to Tim and Phil while we get those window measurements? We shouldn’t be long.”
“Sure,” Jonathan said, breaking into yet another grin. “Come on, Dick: I’ll show you where I’m staying.” I followed him to the kitchen and up the maid’s stairway while Bob and Mario took out tape measures and headed for the parlor.
I’d noticed on the guided tour that Jonathan’s bed was set up in the maid’s room.
“They said I could stay in one of the other bedrooms,” Jonathan said as we reached the top of the stairs, “but I asked them if I could use this one. I like it. It looks out on the back yard and nobody can see in. And the TV reception’s better in here. I can’t get all the stations with just the rabbit ears, but I get the ones I like best.”
He led me into the small room which, I noticed now, had in addition to the bed a wooden rocking chair and two TV trays: On one, near the window, was the TV and on the other, beside the bed, was a large glass bowl with two bright orange goldfish. Beside the bowl there was a tall shaker of fish food. He walked over to the fish and I followed.
“That’s Phil,” he said, pointing to the one closest to the top of the bowl and seeming quite certain as to which was which, “and that’s Tim—he’s the funny one: You should see him eat! When I can, I want to get them a little castle to put in there so they’ll have someplace to go and sleep. And maybe some of that colored sand.”
He stood smiling at the fish for a moment, then turned his smile to me and I felt a flush of awkwardness.
“So how are you doing, Jonathan?” I asked to cover it.
He looked at me and his smile softened slightly; I suddenly got a sense something I’d never really noticed before—maybe it was what Phil had referred to when he said there was a lot going on under Jonathan’s chatterbox surface.
“I’m doing fine, Dick. Thank you. You have really nice friends, and they’ve all been very good to me. But…” He paused as if looking for the right words.
“But?” I prompted.
He gave a small sigh. “But how much longer do I have to stay inside? I don’t mind being here, and I like helping Bob and Mario, but…well…I just wish I could go out sometimes. You know, just even to get a castle for Tim and Phil, or…”
“I understand,” I said, and I did. I had never really gone into the details of why all this was necessary—I didn’t want to risk frightening him, and all this convoluted business with Tom and Cochran and the Chief and the department and Giacomino probably wouldn’t mean much to him anyway, since he hadn’t been in town long enough to know all the histories. “It really shouldn’t be too much longer. Maybe only another couple weeks. But there’s a lot going on, and you’re an important key to it all, and we have to keep you o
ut of sight until we can resolve it. Okay?”
He was watching me with just the hint of a smile. “I’ll do whatever you want me to.” And once more I felt that flush of awkwardness and…something else.
He’s nineteen, Hardesty! my conscience chided.
Gee, another part of me responded irritably, I had no idea. Why don’t you keep reminding me every five minutes or so?
*
Gay Pride was just two weekends away, and on Tuesday, the union membership voted to ratify the labor contract over Joey G.’s sullen objections. He’d wanted to drag it out to the bitter end, but apparently had gotten word from union headquarters—and quite probably via his old man in prison—that enough was enough. The bully had once again been beaten by a Brady.
During our Wednesday night gathering at Ramón’s, Tim, Phil, Jared, and I agreed to meet for brunch before the parade and all go together. Bob and Mario both had to work, but said they’d be able to make it at least to the parade, since just about everyone in the community would be there, and business at the bars would be very slow until later. Bob told me, as I could have guessed, that Jonathan really wanted to go, and we all discussed the pros and cons and decided to risk it. Bob and Mario would bring him, then take him back immediately after.
I kept in as close touch with Tom as I could, and was increasingly concerned for him. The phone calls continued; there were more notes and threats, and more open hostility—though still with no open confrontations—at work, and I knew it had to be taking its toll on him. He was relieved for his dad, however, when the talks finally ended, and was going to attend a small management-team celebration on Thursday night. We both hoped it would help take some of the tension off, at least for a few hours.
At 1:30 Friday morning, my phone rang. I immediately incorporated it into a dream I was having in a vain attempt to ignore it, but forced myself to reach for the phone before the answering machine kicked in. If this was some drunk wanting to talk to Louise, I was going to be mightily pissed.
