by Josh Thomas
Kent frowned, looked away. “I’ll get you as close as I can, but you do what I say, damn you. I’m your Commander. You follow my orders.”
“I can take the next flight to San Diego. Without me you don’t write a traffic ticket.”
Kent made a fist. “I’d love to pop you, boy.”
Jamie stuck his chin out. “Not as much as you’d love to arrest a killer. Go ahead and pop.”
“How’d you get to be so tough?”
“You think Gay guys aren’t tough? Watch!”
“Here we go. Gay rights again.”
“Ain’t Gay rights,” Jamie sneered. “Gay survival.”
33
Thoroughbred
After dinner—Straight and in the far suburbs—Kent drove an unmarked, dented-in Chevy to the hotel. “We’ve got a search warrant when we need it, but he still hasn’t come home. The surveillance has electronics to intercept any conversation inside the home; his trailer will call us if and when he goes out and tell us where he’s headed. If he goes to a bar you’re not at, we’ll get you there. Also, the prosecutor is going to the grand jury tomorrow, even if he has to ask for a sealed indictment.”
“For threats or murder?”
“Murder. We all know he killed that guy, Jamie. Took you to rub our noses in it.” Kent parked, got the gym bag with their equipment out of the trunk. “You ready?”
“I’m Freddy.” By the eyes, by the strut, Kent knew Jamie was hyped. ***
Jamie sent him away, took a pre-bar nap, then showered and toweled his hair. He told the mirror, “Tonight you dominate.”
He shaved, flossed and brushed his teeth, treated his skin, snipped any oddball hairs, made himself perfect; if he was going to die, he might as well look good doing it.
He took his time, mentally focused, preparing for this performance as he would any other, making himself outstandingly handsome; there was power in that. He finished his routine; Kent knocked on the door. “Come in.” Jamie walked away, wearing jeans, boots and no shirt. He’d discarded an undershirt after grave deliberation. He didn’t want Kent to see his body, but he didn’t want to roast all night. He kept his back to the door.
Kent came in, stopped, loudly whistled, “Whee-oo! The lats. The waist! Turn around.” Jamie’s waist was tiny, which made his V-shape so dramatic. He turned, faced him, got looked at. Kent surveyed him for fifteen silent seconds. “That is the body of a thoroughbred.”
Jamie’s ears burned. Why else but to breed blond children had Thelma married the worthless Ronald, whose only redeeming features were his hair and his dick? Kent said, “Do you shave your chest? That’s part of it. Man, you’re beautiful.”
“No, I’ve got fuzz if you look in the right light.” Jamie tried to find some.
“Straight, ideal abs, amazingly deep cuts. Striations in square pecs. Big arms, great triceps. Wonderful delts. But man, look at that little bitty waist. What’s your sport?”
“I love my hoops, but I’m no athlete.”
“Jamie, get real, that’s an athlete’s body if I ever saw one. You’re too smart not to play to your strengths. How did you use it?”
“Show business. Briefly, only during college.” Jamie turned away, embarrassed.
Casually Kent said, “I guess being in show business, you got photographed at times.”
Don’t ever lie to a cop. “Many thousands of times. That’s how I paid for my education.”
“Man, you’re handsomer than Brad Pitt. You should be a movie star.”
“I don’t want to portray illusion, I want to describe reality. All my life I’ve wanted to be a reporter.”
“It’s a professional body, man, why not use it?”
“It’s a professional mind. Can I never get paid for my ideas?”
That hit hard, and Gay-Straight confusion fell on them; they had a job to do. “You have the tiniest waist, though. How’d it get so small? You ain’t normal.”
“By not eating greaseburgers, you moron. By working out six days a week. And before you can say anything, I’m 5’10” and taller than both my parents… were. Can we please get on with it now?”
“Yeah, let’s get this thing secured.” Guiltily, Kent took out an oversize, red Indiana University sweatshirt, turned it inside out and clipped a mic to the chest, then turned it rightside out. “Here you go, slugger.” He held it up.
Jamie raised his hands, got it on; it was commitment. He looked in the mirror. “No, not an Other School sweatshirt! I can’t wear this, my mother would shoot me. I asked for Purdue. You know I did.”
“They didn’t have any in your size. This was the best I could do.”
“What a betrayal. My whole family would shoot me.” Except that stupid Stone.
“Let me see.” Kent turned him this way and that. “You look good in red. The extra size helps conceal the mic. Besides, baggy’s in style. How does it feel? Does it scratch?”
“No, and I look better in gold!” Jamie turned away for his smokes. “Bought a fucking Chair-Thrower sweatshirt. The minute we’re done I’m burning this thing.”
Kent sat on the bed. Maybe this wasn’t about sweatshirts. “Are you all right?”
Jamie quieted. “I’m not going to back out, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You can, you know. No one will blame you if you do, Jamie. Nobody in the world has the right to tell you to do this. Back out at the last minute if you want to.”
Jamie drew in a lungful of smoke, sat on the other bed. “I feel confident, a bit pumped; otherwise calm. At some point I may need to tap into my anger. I’ll know if the time comes to turn it on.”
Kent thought of Cy Young winner Tim Virdon; same attitude on game day. Kent nodded, then snickered.
“What?” Jamie said. Are my wrists too small?
“I was just thinking how you had your anger going with Carson. Whee-oo! Remind me not to cross you. You were ready to take on the entire FBI. And wouldn’t nobody in that room have bet against you, neither.”
Jamie smiled ruefully. “What a jerk.”
“Why does the FBI have a file on you?”
“I don’t know, but somehow it’s related to this case. There’s something very strange going on. Everything changed when FBI jurisdiction was transferred from Cincinnati to Indy. You saw it today with Carson. Cooperation turned into complete opposition. I don’t trust his office, Kent. Something’s not right.”
“Do you really know the attorney general?”
Kent’s face was so serious-doubtful-wondering that Jamie smiled. “The attorney general’s never heard of me—but the White House has. If it comes to it, I’ll contact their political people, and they’ll contact DOJ. I’ve tried to avoid it up to now, I don’t want to exert political influence in a criminal investigation. If I get an uncensored Freedom of Information report, I won’t need the attorney general. The FBI will hang itself.”
“Shee-it,” Kent chuckled, falling back on the bed. “I kind of thought you were bluffing.”
“But you bought it anyway.”
Kent grabbed a pillow and threw it at him, caught him full in the face. “No way I wasn’t gonna buy it. You even had me scared, you little fucker. Blaney and me both.”
Perfect tension breaker. Jamie stood, faced a wall, stepped back three paces and did ten pushoffs, a full-body stretch.
Then Kent maxed out the tension; reached into his pocket and took out a handgun. “Jamie, I wouldn’t feel right without asking you to protect yourself.”
Jamie turned, recoiled at the thing in pure fear. “Kent, this is all going to go just fine. I’m not getting near these people. All I have to do is get the address.”
“Take the gun, Jamie. You may need it.”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with it. I’ve never fired a gun in my life.”
“Never?”
“Is there a rule that says I’m supposed to have? Take that thing out of my sight.”
“Well, no, but gee. I’ve never met a guy who hasn’t fired
a gun.”
“Go to Gay bars more often.”
“Jamie, this could be dangerous. What if something goes wrong?”
“It goes wrong. I’ll have to use my other weapon.”
“What’s that?”
“The one between my ears.”
Kent’s voice rose, “Jamie, I’m your Commander. I order you to take the damn gun.”
“You’re my Commander, all right—and I’m a civilian. San Diego’s nice this time of year. There’s a limit to the orders you can give.”
“I know, man. But please take the gun.”
“Kent, I have an aversion to guns I can’t begin to tell you about. I won’t touch it; I’m terrified to be in the same room with it. Take that awful thing out of here. Let’s catch a killer using my Commander’s good plan.”
“Jamie, no plan is foolproof.”
“Buddy, if your plan is flawed, theirs is a recipe for disaster. Commander’s going to arrest them without a shot being fired.”
Reluctantly Kent put the gun in a drawer, told his monitor to call the room if he could pick up their conversation. Five seconds later the phone rang.
“Taxi’s on its way,” he said, tossing the Chevy keys to Jamie, who attached them to a key ring on his left hip. Kent would hold the cab, which was really a police car, until Jamie and the Chevy were away, then Kent, as his bodyguard, would follow to Chez Nous. George Slaughter would be stationed at Six of One, with a mic and a monitor car. Mic’d officers were deployed inside all other Gay bars and restaurants, and everyone had unmarked backup outside. Slaughter’s assistant Harvey coordinated communications at headquarters.
It amused Jamie to imagine Slaughter at Six of One, but Kent hadn’t questioned the decision. “It feels good to be back in the saddle again,” Slaughter had said. “I get claustrophobic in this office box sometimes.”
Privately Jamie teased him, “It’s really just an excuse to wear your leather.”
“That too,” Slaughter grinned, daintily batting his eyelashes.
Plain cars were assigned to the library, Washington Street and the bathhouses on Capitol and North Keystone. A patrol car was at Monument Circle because that was normal behavior, with another floating among the monuments north of Washington Street and a third making a circuit past each bar in turn. Col. Potts, Chief Watson, the sheriff and the prosecutor had command cars on the perimeter. Post 52 was on alert, every trooper available.
The whole thing even acquired a nickname. “Operation Pride,” Kent told Jamie over dinner. “I picked it for you. God knows, officers have a lot of pride staked on this thing.”
Jamie was deeply pleased. Now he said, “It’s ten o’clock, Commander. Ready to go to the dance?” He swung his camera bag over his shoulder.
“Let’s boogie,” Kent said, following him out the door.
Jamie sang, “We Will, We Will Rock You!” By the second line Kent was supplying foot-stomps and handclaps, Jamie the fist-thrust choreography. If the thoroughbred was going to die, he might as well do it to a song by Queen.
Kent couldn’t help but watch that tiny little butt stomp away.
34
Spotlight
Jamie didn’t like his parking place. His monitor car was supposed to save him a spot in the small lot west of the bar, but it was full, all of the cars there unoccupied. He squeezed the clunky old Impala back onto the street, dodging theater traffic. “Where’s my monitor?” he yelled into the microphone. “He’s not here and I don’t like it. Tell Kent to let me know once we’re inside that everyone’s where they’re supposed to be.”
He found a spot around the corner, managed to parallel-park the old boat and describe his location. He checked in the mirror; he looked okay, not edgy; shut off the ignition, breathed twice and stepped out of the car. He strode toward Chez Nous. Fifteen feet from the door he muttered to himself,“Made me wear a goddamn IU sweatshirt.One size too big.” He tossed his head. “But tonight I dominate.”
A cab with a single black-haired passenger pulled up to the entrance as Jamie went inside the bar. He paid a $3 cover, proceeds going to Hoosiers Care About AIDS, declined the change from his ten-spot, got his hand stamped.
Semi-crowded, surprisingly so. It must be because of the fundraiser.
Two shirtless leathermen stood in the dim left corner. Pool tables were active. This music had the beat he needed tonight, unlike the sappy Straight crap on the hotel radio. He walked to the bar. “Bud Light.” Realized that was a mistake; no booze tonight.
“Coming up,” the bartender replied. A glass was set before him. Jamie paid for his Diet Coke and left a tip for Lt. Phil Blaney. “Thank you much,” the bartender smiled.
Jamie leaned forward; Blaney cocked his head. “Does this mean I can expect good service tonight, barkeep?”
Phil guffawed, “In a Gay bar? Takes more than a buck. But it rhymes with buck.”
“Ain’t that it.” Jamie headed off for the terrace. Phil, I wondered but didn’t know. Thank you for reopening those cases. A wave of pride and respect washed over him.
Ten minutes later Kent passed, wearing a Colts sweatshirt. Kent gave him a nod without looking. The music was heating up, Jamie’s right foot was working.
First john break. Soon Kent was at the next urinal, unzipping his fly. Jamie made a fist,kept staring ahead.Kent said,“Message received,sorry, we’re clear, your monitor’s in place. This joint is busy for a weeknight.”
Jamie finished. Made another fist. Outside, he looked for any hot man to divert his attention. Saw one. Followed. No killers visible.
The bar was filling up, and Jamie checked his watch, 10:40. The DJ was spinning “I Will Survive.” Jamie Gaynor sang along, hoped it was true, watched the dance floor and the rest of the place.
Second john break, same urinal. Spot next to him quickly filled up. Jamie glanced over, troll alert! “Well, hello hello hello,” a voice chirped.
Jamie buttoned up, flushed. “Goodbye,” he winked. Kent was frowning in line.
Boredom kept Jamie moving, but the music was still decent. He went up to the front bartender, who served him promptly. “Bud Light,” he growled.
“Yes sir.”
Left Lt. Blaney money for Diet Coke and tip.
The bar was big for Indianapolis, but it wasn’t that big a place. Waiting was hard. Jamie wanted to talk to anyone about anything. Presently a voice filled his ear, “I’m sorry for staring. Don’t tell me you’re here alone.” Jamie turned to find a brown-haired young man, a couple inches shorter, maybe three years older, very White Hoosier corn; Jamie’s idea of pleasant looking. “’Cause I won’t believe you.” The guy had a nice smile.
“I’ve been stood up,” Jamie smiled back. His eyes danced and he didn’t even know it.
“Right. Now who’s going to stand you up?”
“Just a guy, a friend of a friend. We were supposed to have a drink together.”
Mr. Pleasant grinned, looked toward the pool table. “I hate it when you lie to me.”
“My name’s Joe,” Jamie lied, his hand outstretched.
Hands and eyes met. “Your name’s Gorgeous. My name’s Joe.”
“Hey, Joe.”
He was very gentle. They talked sports. Real Joe was excited about baseball’s home run derby, and was working up to asking Jamie to go to a Triple-A game when the Indians were in town. Jamie saw it coming, felt the need to remind him of the friend of a friend.
“I knew it,” Joe sighed. “My one chance at a tall, handsome, butch, blond muscleman. Would it help if I knelt, signed over my mutual funds and kissed your boots?”
“No, but it would be highly entertaining. Tall, huh?”
“Especially when I’m on my knees.” Jamie kissed him, thanked him, affirmed his soul and their mutual attraction; then moved on, spying Kent in a corner and realizing he’d just watched him kiss Joe.
Third john break. His only neighbors were there to piss. Jamie fought exasperation. ***
Four beats came,then the s
ound of a midget saying, “Twenty seconds and counting.”
Jamie screamed, homosexual anthem! Dancetime. He headed for the floor, killer or no. Lightning cracked. It was a sin not to dance to the Pet Shop Boys, and he was a very good dancer. Jamie grabbed the arm of the closest man. The fellow was at least sixty. “You lovely boy, why me?”
“Gray’s cute too. You’ve honed your technique.”
“Mercy me, where is my Viagra?”
A small brown bottle was passed to Jamie on the dance floor by an athletic, shirtless Black guy with dreadlocks. Shouldn’t, working. Serial killer!
Did anyway, fuck this shit. Inhale. Passed the vial back to the brown hand. Kissed air in the guy’s direction. “Hey,” Dreadlocks mouthed back. Blood engorged in two brains. Kent climbed three steps to a little balcony above the dance floor.
Lt. Phil Blaney got a call, but with the loud music he had to take it in the office.
Jamie felt his heartbeat. A small circle of space formed around him and his partners, though the floor rapidly got crowded with this song and these boys. “The blond! How in the world. A face like that?” someone shouted on the perimeter.
His neighbor shrugged, “Maybe he likes spankings over daddy’s knee.”
It’s not a sin. The beat seguéd into the cynical Boys’ most positive sound. The older guy begged off. Jamie swatted daddy’s butt goodbye. Then before him was Dreadlocks, with pretty eyes. They started off slow, minimal motion, just a basic up, down and around; saying hello physically, then deliberately ignoring each other until a word of lyric brought them together. Then spins with the light show going into the chorus, where they danced together, face to face, lean-in, lean-out, to “One in a Million Men.”
Another hit of poppers during the second verse; the same separation as before, but more animated now. Jamie’s toot hit him as the second verse built up. A bright spotlight found him, stayed on him.
Kent didn’t want him that visible, but nobody’d warned the DJ. Across the room the same thing occurred to Thomas Alan Ford, newly arrived and delighted.
Jamie and Dreadlocks made full eye contact now. Touching each other for micro-seconds, touching themselves, showing the sex they could have, projecting it to the room and getting it back again as smoke billowed, floorboards trampolined, walls swayed—two in a roomful of tribesmen, dancing and singing and grooving together.
