by Leroy Clark
“Serious about acting? What?”
“Yeah, serious about acting, but serious about everything.
With the characters we talked about their life histories, their goals, their views. He told me about his sister. She was older. He looked up to her. I guess she sort of protected him from his father.”
“What else?”
Tara paused a moment to find the right words, glancing around the room. “He told me about his girlfriend, Kathy. He said his relationship with her was sort of on and off like May and Eddie’s. Eddie was the character he played. He told me about some of their fights.”
“Do you know this Kathy’s last name?”
“Oh, let me think.” Tara lifted her chin and closed her eyes. “McDermott.” She said proudly.
He jotted down the name in his notebook and prodded her again. “Did you meet her?”
“Once. Just for a moment after a rehearsal. Never got to talk to her.”
“She’s not a theatre major?”
“No. English I think. He’s not either. I think he’s planning just to minor in theatre. He’s been taking courses in both English and Political Science. I’d don’t think he’s decided on one or the other yet as a major.”
“Anything else,” Slate ventured.
“He told me he’d been in trouble as a kid, you know, in high school. He said he’d stolen a car.”
“And what was his attitude about that?” Slate watched her over the edge of his cup as he took another sip of coffee.
She was quick to say, “He feels really bad about it. It was peer pressure. He said he’d learned his lesson.”
“Do you think that’s true?” he asked dubiously.
“Yes.” Tara’s green eyes flashed at his tone. “I mean from the way Robin described his life growing up and his parents, I think he is trying to break away from all that. He wants to do something with his life. Maybe even go into politics.”
“Did he talk about his father? Slate asked.
Tara shook her head sadly. “He said he was really violent. Used to beat up on the whole family.”
“Did he tell you how he died?”
She nodded. “I was frustrated with him one day. He was so bland. I yelled at him, taunted him. Nothing worked. Then I mentioned something about his father. He let loose. Yelling—crying—swearing—but he finally told me the whole story. It helped a lot. I mean—it was a terrible thing to happen, but after he told me about it, he was able to get more emotional in the part.”
As she told him about the incident, Tara’s eyes filled with tears. Slate was amazed at the play of emotions over her face. She seemed to be envisioning the entire experience.
Slate proceeded carefully to change the subject. “How does Robin get along with the other students?”
“He seems standoffish,” she said, her eyes sad. “But he isn’t, not really. He doesn’t know how to be social. Once you get talking to him, he’s fine. He just isn’t good at initiating.”
“And what about Steven Davis. Did he and Robin work together in a show? Did they get along?”
“He worshiped Steven.” Tara said shortly.
Slate asked warily, “How? I mean, how did he show that?”
“He talked about how good Steven was. How talented. How he could just do or be whoever he wanted. Robin envied that. He wanted to learn how he could act like that.”
Slate said nothing.
She went on, “He used to watch Steven, study him.”
“How did Steven feel about that?”
“Steven loved being the center of attention. He loved having everyone watching him.” She laughed nervously.
“And how did Steven feel about Robin specifically?”
“I don’t know. Steven was usually very nice, but he was a star around here and some of that went to his head. He could be sarcastic sometimes and nasty. I never saw him like that with Robin, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” She replied, very calmly.
Slate said, just as calmly, “And how did you feel about Steven? How did you feel about Robin?”
She said with surprising poise, “I loved acting with Steven. He was great on stage. I only knew him superficially off stage. Hi—how are you—fine—kind of thing. Robin I liked off stage. I’ve always been shy—well, I was shy growing up. I kinda feel like I understand how Robin feels—like an outsider.”
“You don’t seem shy to me,” Slate said with a smile.
“I’ve been working on it for twenty years,” she said, returning his smile.
Slate stood up and held his hand out across the table. “Thank you for being so helpful,” he said.
Tara shook his hand and stood up as well. “I hope you find out who did it.”
He paused a moment. He looked directly into her eyes, “Do you think Robin could have done this?”
She shrugged. “No, no way.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“He didn’t seem that crazy to me.” She smiled. “Robin has his problems, but he isn’t a violent person. When we did Fool for Love, I had to practically break his face. He never hurt me. He let me beat the shit out of him, but he never tried to get back at me. He was the most non-violent person I’ve ever known.”
“Thanks,” he smiled again and opened the door.
The two girls, still at the table when they emerged, applauded. Tara took a bow. Slate could see them out of the corner of his eyes all huddling together and talking in low tones as he walked out of the Duncan Lounge.
Back at the station, Slate found Jerry waiting for him, but Remy and Tiffany had been assigned to another case.
“How’s Karen?” Slate asked.
“Better.” Jerry’s give-it-a-rest tone of voice made it clear he wasn’t ready to talk about it.
“Want some lunch?”
“Yeah, I’m so hungry I could eat the south bound end of a skunk going north.”
The look of astonishment on Slate’s face must have tickled him because Jerry burst into gales of laughter.
“What the hell was that?” Slate asked, baffled.
“It’s an expression my dad used to say,” Jerry explained.
“Jesus,” Slate exclaimed. “Eating a skunk’s ass? You’re worse than Tiffany.”
“Let’s go some place new.” Jerry encouraged. “I need a change.”
“There’s a new restaurant on Douglas,” Slate noted. “I drove by it a week ago.”
They stopped at Taffy’s sandwich shop and ordered the special: beef noodle soup and roast beef sandwiches with spicy mustard. When they had settled in, Slate asked about Jerry’s wife Karen.
“That bitch! Do you wanna know what that bitch did? They have this orderly comes in, you know, brings around the food. She gave him a blow job. She fucking told me. Laughed about it—thought it was real funny! The woman is a nightmare. I mean—it’s one thing to do it. It’s another to tell your husband. It’s like she wants me to leave her. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. But as far as I’m concerned it’s over. ”
After Jerry’s rant finally ended, Slate moved on to other topics. Soon they were having a good old time trashing the perps they’d arrested in the past. The food was delicious, the break relaxing, and they came back to the station in a good mood.
The mood was short lived. The Chief came by soon after they returned.
“What in hell are you guys doing?” He scowled.
Slate started to say, “We’re doing the best we can do,” but the Chief launched in before he had the chance to say two words.
“I want some goddamn results. That frigging Harmon is bad mouthing us all over town. I gave you Remy and Tiffany—“
“Yeah, so where are they?”
“Christ,” He said, getting angry. “The world doesn’t stop. Some creep shook his girlfriend’s baby until its brains fell out. I had to pull ‘em off this and put ‘em on that for a day or two.”
Slate and Jerry stood silently as the Chief continued his angry tirade. Slate observed that
Jerry was perspiring and his face was hard.
“Do you even have a suspect?”
They didn’t answer.
“Is this Lightfoot that no one can find the suspect? That’s what I’m told.
Jerry managed to stay calm, but his voice was cold. “Yes, Lightfoot is a suspect. We’re working on it.”
Well, I’m telling you this. Find him. Find him goddamit or I’ll have you both doing busywork in fraud investigations.” He turned on his heel and walked away.
Slate slammed a folder on his desk. He was feeling as pissed off as Jerry. He knew the pressure his boss was under. He felt the same pressure. It was like that feeling he got before a tornado. He knew something was coming, something dangerous, but there was no telling where or when it would hit.
They spent the rest of the afternoon reviewing the chain of evidence. Slate tried to reach Kathy McDermott several times, but there was no answer and no machine to take a message. The only bright spot came when Slate found an email from Tiffany. Through her friend in Blackwell, she had located the addresses and phone numbers of Lightfoot’s sister Joanna and his brother Jeffrey.
Slate told Jerry he was going to call the sister and set up a meeting. Jerry advised that they just drop in unannounced.
“Surprise might be more beneficial,” he argued. “If she’s off balance, we have the edge. For all we know she’s hiding him.”
Slate agreed. He called the Blackwell Police and set up a meeting with a detective named John Lawson for around eleven the next morning. It was all right to keep the Lightfoot siblings uninformed, but not the police. If they ran into trouble with the Lightfoots, they needed the local police to be knowledgeable and available. Cooperation and collaboration were essential.
Slate warned Jerry that he might be five or ten minutes late the next day because he had a doctor’s appointment at eight. He didn’t tell him it was Dr. Channing. They decided to drive to Blackwell at nine-ten in the morning or as soon as Slate got there. After that both Jerry and Slate said to hell with it and left. Slate was still pissed at the Chief for unloading on him. Before going home, he drove to Barnes and Noble and purchased a copy of Feeling Good by David D. Burns.
While Jeanne cooked dinner, he read the first two chapters. After eating her delicious dinner of steak, baked potato, and corn on the cob, Slate got cleaned up for his date. He was feeling good, very good.
CHAPTER 22
ANGELS IN AMERICA
It was tough finding a parking spot near the theatre, but Slate finally found a place in the last row of the lot across the street from the theatre. Duncan Auditorium was a blaze of light and groups of people were converging at the main entrance from the various walkways. Slate eased his way through the crowd and made it to the lobby. The main ticket booth on the left sported a huge sign above the window that read “WILL CALL, reservations only.” Straight ahead another sign above a table read “TICKETS FOR THIS PERFORMANCE.”
Slate got in the “WILL CALL” line which was much shorter and looked around for George, but he didn’t see him anywhere. He finally made it to the window and picked up the tickets. The lobby was becoming more and more crowded until people were actually touching. Slate pushed through the oncoming herd and made his way outside. From the height of the porch he could see the people coming from all directions. It reminded him of a scene in old movie The Body Snatchers in which Kevin McCarthy and Dana Winter peered out of a window overlooking the town square and saw all the pod people gathering. Slate noticed that the majority were men; many seemed gay. The signs were everywhere in the clothes, the gestures, the way some of the men walked, the way they looked at each other. Slate knew the term for this “sense of recognition.” It was “gaydar.” He had never experienced it before on such a large scale.
Slate spotted George and waved, immediately feeling a rush of excitement. While the noise and fervor of the crowd around him increased, he noticed only the handsome masculine man coming towards him with a bright grin on his face. They shook hands, each taking in the other man’s wardrobe. Slate had showered and put on a light blue shirt, tan Dockers, and a casual blue and gray sports jacket. George was wearing tight jeans, a silvery gray shirt, and a tweed sports jacket. Slate liked the smell of his cologne. We have good chemistry, he thought to himself.
“Big crowd,” George said as if surprised. “I’ve never seen anything like this here before.”
“It’s all the publicity. It’s was front page for a week.” Slate told him. “Don’t you read the paper?”
“Sometimes,” George grinned. “I bet they sell out.”
“Must be exciting for the students.” Slate thought of Aaron and Joe Moss. “It’s good that something positive came out of this.”
“Yeah.” George leaned closer. “How’s it going?”
Slate knew he meant the investigation, but he didn’t want to talk about it with so many people nearby. “It’s going. One step at a time. That’s all we can do.”
“Right.”
“I got the tickets. Shall we find our seats?”
George nodded. They edged their way through the crowd waiting to buy tickets and made their way to the double doors on the right that led into the theatre.
Tim Wheeler stood by the ticket box. “Hi, glad you could come.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Slate replied.
“This is incredible, isn’t it? We’ve never had an audience like this before.” He ripped their tickets and gave them programs. “Row G, seats 19 and 20. Great seats.”
“Thanks.” Slate was glad he had called and purchased the tickets early.
They made their way down the side aisle and found their seats in the center of the seventh row from the front. Slate was amazed at the set. The colored lights on the white fabric that encircled the acting area were truly beautiful.
“I can’t get over the set,” he told George.
“I know. Last week it was a bare stage.”
“I didn’t know they did stuff like this on the college level. The only play I ever saw was back in high school.”
“University shows are pretty close to professional most of the time. Sometimes they’re even better.”
Slate felt acutely aware of George sitting beside him. He noticed every movement—the way he rubbed his nose, the way his muscles rippled when he opened his program, the feel of his leg as it momentarily touched his.
“I didn’t think they had much money.”
“They don’t. No one gets paid. It’s all part of the academic program.”
“Even the faculty?”
“The faculty primarily get paid to teach. Any kind of research or creative work is just expected as part of that. So if one of ‘em directs a show like this or designs the set or the costumes, they don’t get any extra.”
“Must be a hell of a work schedule.”
“I think it is. They teach during the day and rehearse for four or five hours a night for six or seven weeks.”
“They don’t teach much though, do they? Just three or four classes a week.”
“That’s the myth. If they teach three classes, three credits each. That’s generally only nine hours a week. But in theatre an acting class is often three hours long twice a week, so they’re teaching six hours in one course. Then there’s the preparation time for classes and the feedback and grading. Plus they have lots of production meetings, one on one sessions working with students individually. Hell, they often put in sixty or seventy hours a week—“
“How do you know so much?” Slate asked, cocking an eyebrow.
George learned closer to him and whispered in his ear, “I used to date one of the professors. When he was doing a show, he often put in fourteen or fifteen hours a day. I got sick of it.”
“Oh,” Slate acknowledged. He wondered if George would dump him as well when he found out that Slate also worked fifteen hour days frequently.
George gave him a reassuring nudge with his elbow. “He’s no longer here. Moved to Idaho. That was befo
re I became a cop. Now sometimes I work fifteen hours.”
Slate nodded with an understanding smile and turned his attention to the program. The cover showed a well-built naked man with two strategically placed feathers floating in front of him. In the program note he learned more about the three stories intertwined in the play. He was surprised to read that the author’s intent was to explore the relationship of the gay community with the larger political agenda of the nation. Maybe the world really was changing, he thought. He had never seen a movie or a TV show that seemed this bold.
Glancing at his watch, Slate found that it was seven-forty. As he looked around, the auditorium seemed almost full, yet there were still people coming in. He noticed they were being directed toward the back rows. The excitement of the crowd was electric, the roar of the hundreds of conversations increasing moment by moment. He was anxious for the play to begin.
The house lights dimmed. George whispered, “Here we go.” As the lights faded to a blackout, Slate could hear funeral music. When the lights came up, a bearded rabbi addressed the audience. Slate—transported into the world of the play as it progressed—was surprised when the house lights came back up for the first intermission.
“Wow” was all he could verbalize to George. George seemed to take it all in as if it were an everyday experience, but Slate was astonished. Here was a world that he had never really seen before being enacted live in front of his eyes. Gay men were living together and having relationships and problems like any other couple.
They stood up to stretch, deciding not to go to the lobby because of the massive crowd.
“Did you know the rabbi was played by a woman?” George asked.
Slate shook his head. “You’re kidding.”
“She also played Roy Cohn’s doctor.”
“That was a woman?”
“Pretty good, huh?”
“I had no idea.”
“She also plays Pitt’s mother—the Mormon lady.” Slate was amazed and looked at his program. He found her name—Tara Ferguson. He couldn’t believe it was same attractive redhead he had talked to.
